


Retribution

by Odderancy (dreamcatchers_and_chocolate)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (It's only referenced a little), (of a character that does not appear in the story), Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Alternate Universe - Swapfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underswap (Undertale), Bear in mind I'm not American so I don't know what I'm doing here, Gen, Great Depression, I don't know why I decided this should take place in America, Murder, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Poison, Smoking, Swapfell Sans (Undertale), Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), Underswap Papyrus (Undertale), Underswap Sans (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-07-25 17:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16201802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamcatchers_and_chocolate/pseuds/Odderancy
Summary: Edge twitches, his soul skipping a beat, but before the tone could die out, he is by the desk, pressing it against his ear. “Private Detective Edge Serif, how can I help you?”“My name is Blue Fontaine,” a light voice with British accent says on the other side of the line, sounding incredibly serious. In the background, he can hear something that sounded like quiet sobbing. “I am calling on the behalf of Sir Razz Gaster of Duskshire Manor. We have heard of your abilities and we require your assistance. Sir Razz’s husband have been found dead.”...A late night, after yet another unfruitful day with no work, Detective Edge Serif receives a phonecall from the countryside. There seems to have been a murder.





	1. Chapter 1

_A flash of excruciating pain. The man chips for air as he folds his arms over his stomach, almost falling forward. A cough tears from his throat. Black dots appear before his eyes, and he attempts to scream, but only a hissing escapes him. Flashes of agony, which never seems to stop, goes through him._

_Then, after what feels like an eternity, he drops to the floor. A wine glass falls from his hand. A crash rings out in the room, and pieces of shattered crystal spread across the floor. The red wine glistens in the light from the chandelier, reminiscent of blood._

***Insert jazzy intro here***

Outside the dark window, rain drizzles down over the street. A cat screams, but the sound is soon drowned out by a car. They flash by, joining the streetlamps in lighting everything up for a brief second before they disappear once more. Inside, however, only a table lamp illuminates the small office, warm and cosy. Smoke lies heavy over the room.

Edge sits bowed over his writing desk, eyelights glazing over the newspaper. _What if Girls Do Wear Short Skirts – Ankles Are No Worse Than Wrists, Police Woman Says_ , it reads on one page. _US Convicts Capone_ was the headline of another; a more interesting one. Al Capone had finally met justice. Adjusting the position of his cigar, he glances out the water-speckled window. Low in the sky, moonlight is breaking through the dark clouds. With the hand not turning the pages, he reaches out for the bottle of bourbon standing on the desk and holds it to his mouth. It is lukewarm as he swallows, burning in his throat.

It had been three weeks since his last case, and it was becoming a problem. Rent was not cheap, and neither was putting yourself into the newspaper. Reaching the page with the ads, he finds his own. _Private Detective Edge Serif_ , it reads, with a list of services and his address and number. His abilities were many, and his skill was great. Nonetheless, he had been without clients for a good while, and his last case had been a disappointment – he’d been hired to find out whether a spouse was cheating or not. Turned out they actually had joined a chess tournament in secret.

Puffing on the cigar, he sighs, shoving the paper away. A _tock_ came from the clock as the pointer hit twelve, and the clock turns five. Time to go home to his small, empty apartment. Yet another day of nothing. The paper crinkles as he closes it, shoving it to the side. The chair scratches against the dark wooden floor as he rises, taking the few steps to the coat-hanger.

Just as he pulls on his black overcoat over his arm, a piercing ringing fills the room. Edge twitches, his soul skipping a beat, but before the tone could die out, he is by the desk, pressing it against his ear. “Private Detective Edge Serif, how can I help you?”

“ _My name is Blue Fontaine_ ,” a light voice with British accent says on the other side of the line, sounding incredibly serious. In the background, he can hear something that sounded like quiet sobbing. “ _I am calling on the behalf of Sir Razz Gaster of Duskshire Manor. We have heard of your abilities and we require your assistance. Sir Razz’s husband have been found dead_.”

The sobbing grows louder for a brief moment before it calms again. Holding in the excitement rising in him, Edge nods to himself. “My condolences. Do you suspect murder?”

“ _Yes. But Sir Razz would prefer if we did not speak of it via phone. Would you be able to come here tonight? We pay well_.”

For the briefest second, he looks out the window. Down at the street, where the trees are lacking leaves in the October chill, and the wind tears at their branches. The rainwater gathered in puddles on the street, splashing over the sidewalk whenever a car passes by. The weather is inhospitable, to say the least. Edge grins.

“Of course,” he replies, pulling out a notebook and grabbing his fountain pen. “What are the details?”

* * *

When Edge pulls up his shining red 1924’s Hispano-Suiza outside of Duskshire Manor, a chill travel down his spine. Its dark façade towers over him, casting a shadow over the enormous garden. It is overgrown, in a way that might be artsy at summer, but now- The bare trees sways in the wind, and the dormant rosebushes seems to reach toward him, their thorns as sharp as any knife. Grabbing his suitcase from the passenger’s seat, he slides out of his beloved car; one he’d bought relatively cheaply after a crash and repaired from scratch himself. It was the kind of car younger him had dreamt of having but known he never would.

The gravel of the path crunches beneath his shoes as he hesitantly approaches the entrance. The double doors are meters high, dark brown and carved with abstract patterns. He pulls his hat down over his head as rain whips against his face. It is more violent out on the countryside. Straightening, Edge exhales slowly, and his face sets. He is the great Detective Edge. Never in his life would he be intimidated by a mere building. Filled with determination, he raises his hand and knocks.

The sound seems to echo through the cold night. Despite his determination, a shiver travels down his spine. Telling himself it’s only the chill, he sticks his hands into his coat pockets, clenching them. Edge can feel his soul pound against his ribcage.

Suddenly, the door handle jerks. He twitches as the door slides open, revealing a shadow. Instinctually, he recoils, before the light from inside washes over them both. He breathes a sigh of relief. A skeleton. A little taller than him and dressed in a butler’s high-collared black suit with a white bow tie. Their expression is neutral as they study him.

Clearing his throat, Edge pulls up a business card from his pocket, handing it to them. They take it, glancing at it before turning back to him. “Private Detective Edge Serif,” he says, voice rough. “I was asked to come.”

“Of course, sir. Welcome.” They step aside, still holding the door open. Allowing him to step inside, which he does, grateful to escape the rain. Just as he steps inside, a flash of lightning travels over the sky. A second later, thunder follows. The skeleton’s eyes flicker toward the sky, anxiety flashing over them before it disappears once more, just as fast as it came. Quicker than necessary, they close the door again. “I’m Stretch Fontaine – the butler of Duskshire Manor.”

Before Edge can as much as nod, Stretch turns around and waves for him to follow. So he does. _Fontaine_. That was the name of the caller before, wasn’t it? And they both spoke with British accent.

The entrance hall feels enormous. There is a white marble staircase leading to a balcony on the upper floor, a crystal chandelier in the ceiling, and a fireplace with dancing, crackling fire which doesn’t seem to give any warmth at all. In front of it is an old-fashioned couch and two armchairs. Otherwise it’s empty. The sound of their footsteps bounces between the walls, which are covered in paintings of serious-looking people in beautiful clothes from centuries ago.

Stretch opens another door, and lets him into what must be a parlour. Immediately, the air feels warmer, lighter. The walls are covered in a white wallpaper with purple flowers, and the wooden furniture is all white while the couches and armchairs are iris. A huge photo hangs on the wall, framed by a golden frame. It’s depicting two skeletons, both smiling. The shorter one is wearing a wedding dress. On a divan, the same skeleton lies, wearing a fashionable knee-length dress and with their face in a book. Another skeleton sits on a footrest by it, waving a fan over the lying skeleton’s face. Edge can only assume it is his employer.

“Sir Razz,” Stretch says, and as the skeleton looks up, Edge’s suspicions are confirmed. “The detective has arrived.”

Nodding, Sir Razz throws his legs over the side of the divan, sitting up. Then he rises, and as he steps toward Edge, he nods in greeting. When he offers his hands, Edge shakes it firmly. “Sir.”

“I’m glad you could come so fast, Detective,” Sir Razz tells him, squeezing his hand. “I have gone through a terrible ordeal and I want it solved as fast as possible.”

“Understandable, sir,” Edge nods as they let go of each other. “My condolences.”

“Yes, thank you.” He gestures toward the other skeleton, who is clad in a fashionable dark blue suit, and comes to join them. “Detective Serif, this is Blue Fontaine, my right-hand man and dearest friend. You have already met Stretch.”

“Pleasure,” he says despite how his body is near vibrating with his wish to get started. Blue smiles at him, although he looks tired as he reaches out his hand, and Edge shakes his as well. “May I see the body?”

Shaking his head, Sir Razz gestures for his employee. “It will have to wait until the morning. Blue will show you to your room, and you can start your investigation after breakfast. There you will get the chance to meet everyone involved, as well. I hope this is acceptable?”

“Very well.” Edge nods, although impatience coils in his stomach. Why on earth was he asked to come immediately, then? He could’ve stayed at home and arrived in the morning, hopefully after this terrible rainstorm. He is a skeleton of manners, however, and doesn’t voice his thoughts. The fact that the nation is in a state of monetary crisis and he is happy to have a roof over his head, even with two roommates, was also a factor, of course. He won’t lie to himself about it – he can’t afford to offend his newest employer.

Blue gestures for him to follow, and so he does. Out of the small parlour, and into a long hallway. The walls are covered in portraits, and it is an effort to not shiver as they seem to glare at him. Holding his head high, he studies the way they walk. Up a marble staircase, and into yet another parlour, this one filled with tables in dark wood and similarly dark furniture.

The… Edge isn’t certain what Blue’s job title is, secretary perhaps, opens a dark door before stepping aside. “This will be your room while you reside at Duskshire Manor, Detective Serif. I hope it’s to your liking?”

He steps forward, so he can see. His eyes widen, and Edge has a hard time keeping himself from gaping. The walls are covered in a red wallpaper with golden adornments, and a fire crackles in a fireplace at the end of the room. In its middle, a king-sized bed with red covers resides, and there is also place for a couch group and a writing desk. A chandelier hangs from the white ceiling.

“It’s-” he begins, voice nearly breaking. The room is a far cry from his shabby apartment. From any home he’s ever had. “It’ll suffice.”

Blue smiles. “Perfect. If you will entrust me with your car keys, my brother will come with your baggage, and move your car away from the rain. And I apologize that I cannot offer you any staff of your own, as is custom. We were forced to get rid of the excess after the crash at Wall Street.”

“Understandable,” Edge forces out as he takes a slow step inside, dropping his keys in an outstretched hand. His soul skips a beat. For a moment, he’s worried his mere presence will break something, despite how stupid he knows that sounds. When nothing happens, and no ghosts (yeah, ghosts doesn’t exist, he knows that, but nonetheless-) scream in fury, his shoulders sink, and he exhales. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” Blue’s voice is warm. He takes a step back, out of the room. “Just ask if you need anything. Breakfast is at eight o’clock tomorrow; my brother or I will escort you. I’ll leave you alone for now.”

After quickly turning to nod, show that he’s heard, Edge studies the room. Takes it in. With a few steps, he’s standing in front of the bed, and he drops into it, staring at the artful paintings of landscapes and fruit on the walls, at the carved bookcases lining them. Bizarre. There is no other way to describe it. He huffs, a chuckle escaping him. By God, his mother – may she rest in peace – would have accused him of lying to her and sent him to his room, had he tried to convince her he’d spend even one night in a place like this.

Suddenly, it knocks on the door, and he twitches. Instinctually, he calls out, “Who’s there?”

An amused voice from the outside replies. “Stretch, sir. The butler. With your bags. May I come in?”

Feeling his cheeks heat, because of course it was, Blue had said the other would come, he rises and goes to open the door. Had he really been staring for long enough, though? The butler is grinning as it opens, and he steps in. He’s got a suitcase in each hand, and another under one of his arms. In them are all of Edge’s valuables: his work equipment, his clothing, and the few personal things he owns.

“Everything alright, sir?” Stretch asks, sounding far too cheerful for Edge’s taste. Nonetheless, he nods sharply.

“Splendid.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Then of course, under my brother’s care, how can you be anything else? My brother is the best,” he says – rambles, in Edge’s opinion – as he goes to put down the suitcases on the bed. He smiles at Edge, unguardedly, as he starts unpacking. It’s friendly, open. Very different from what Edge is used to. “Have you got any siblings, sir?”

“No,” he replies, taken back by the sudden question. Far more honest than he would’ve been otherwise. “It was only ever my mother and me, and then just me.”

“Oh.” His smile falls. Stretch stops his shuffling, and watches him, as if he’s trying to read him. Edge has no idea what the other is thinking as he suddenly smiles again. “Well. If you ever need any help while you’re at the manor, that’s what I’m here for.”

Unease rises in Edge as he watches the other handle his things, but he does nothing. At this point, he can only assume anything the residents of the manor does is what they are supposed to, and he doesn’t wish to show how uneducated he actually is. It is a quick way to lose people’s confidence in him. Most assume education equals brain. That _money_ equals brain.

“How long have you been working here?” he asks instead, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. The other hums.

“Technically? Five years, since I was sixteen. I was promoted to butler two years ago.” As he speaks, he folds the clothes nicely before putting them into the dark wardrobe by the bed. “But we grew up here, Blue and I, in the Gaster family’s service. Mother was the gardener, and Father the cook. They’re retired now, though, and live in a cottage a bit from here.”

“And your brother?”

“Oh, he’s been in Sir Razz’s service ever since he married Doctor Gaster – may he rest in peace. It’s been… six years? Yeah. They married when Blue and Sir Razz were both twenty. Before that, he used to help out in the kitchen.”

Edge nods absentmindedly, filing this information away for later. It is absolutely the kind of things he needs to know. Everything he can dig up about the staff, and about the baronet himself. For now, anyone was suspect.

Caught up in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice that Stretch finishes unpacking, and backs up. He twitches as the other clears his throat. “Well, I will leave you alone, sir. It is late, after all.” Indeed, Edge realizes as he glances at the grandfather clock on the other side of the room. After midnight. “If you are in need of assistance, the just call one on the nightstand phone, and you’ll reach me if I’m not preoccupied.”

“Thank you.”

With a last smile, Stretch leaves.

As soon as the door clicks closed, Edge sinks down on the bed again. The mattress is soft, softer than anything he’d ever felt before. With a tired sigh, he rises again, and goes to put on his nightshirt. This was going to be an interesting time, for sure.

* * *

As always, he wakes up early the following morning. For once, he feels well-rested. His body buzzes pleasantly with remaining sleepiness as he sits up, stretching his arms high above his head. It takes a few seconds for him to realize just why this morning is different from all others, but then he recognizes his surroundings and remembers. The case. Duskshire Manor. Oh, right.

The sun has just risen at the horizon as he looks out the window, and the meadows are covered in mist. They shimmer yellow as Edge quickly pulls off his nightshirt and starts to dress. Tall trousers, a practical bush shirt he’d gotten cheaply second-hand, a red tie. That is probably appropriate to wear at breakfast. At least he hopes so.

Glancing at the clock, he finds it unlikely he’ll get company here anytime soon. It is only 6 AM, and breakfast is first in two hours. His stomach rumbles at the thought, but he is used to hunger. He can wait. So he might as well get some job done in the meantime. Carefully, he slides the door open, though he finds his care is unnecessary, as it doesn’t make a sound. The parlour outside is dark and cold, and he Edge considers going back in for a jacket. But he is inside, and inside a manor no less. It might be considered rude, judging from his old schoolteachers’ refusal to let their students wear jackets in their classrooms if it was above ten degrees in there. Edge had soon learnt to wear thick sweaters.

Nodding to himself, he steps outside, closing the door behind him. He hasn’t got a key, and so he finds it somewhat unsettling to leave the room behind, but what can he do? It is highly unlikely anyone here would steal from his meagre belongings anyway.

The sound of his shoe heels against the marble floor is loud, and he winces. But all other doors are closed, so he cannot imagine anyone else would have been disturbed. Nonetheless, he continues with gentle steps. After a few moments, he decides to go back downstairs to explore. He believed this was the highest level.

As he turns around the parlour’s corner, into a hallway, he hears a gasp. Before he can stop, something hard collides with him, and he stumbles backwards, almost falling to the ground. His stomach drops. Something breaks against the floor with a crash.

“Fuck,” he hears a quiet swear. Opening his eyes – and when did he close them? – he finds Stretch kneeling on the ground, gathering broken porcelain pieces in the biggest one. His shoulders are hunched, and he only glances up at Edge. Worry shines in his eyelights as he averts his eyes, back down on the floor. “My apologies, sir, I wasn’t looking. I’m terribly sorry, it won’t happen again.”

“No,” Edge says before he can think. Stretch ducks his head, as though he’s trying to make himself smaller. Once again, he glances up at him for just a moment, and the worry in his eyelights has been exchanged for fear. Edge blinks. That expression is uncomfortably familiar. “It was my fault.” Eyes meet his, wide and surprised. “I should’ve been more careful, and I apologize. Let me help with that.”

A sound of disbelief escapes Stretch as Edge joins him on the floor, gathering the broken pieces. They’re shining white with red roses painted on them. He wonders if they were expensive. Probably. “Thank you,” Stretch murmurs, his eyes downcast.

A quiet chuckle. “Believe me, I’ve cleaned worse messes.” He grins as Stretch finally dares to really look at him, curiosity written over his face. “Never work as a janitor in the slum, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Sounds awful.” The tone is inquiring, and, in difference to what Edge finds he’d unconsciously feared, without judgement.

He shrugs. “Money’s money.”

“That’s true.” Stretch nods, although there’s still something thoughtful on his face. “In these times one can’t be picky.”

“Indeed.” These times, after the crash. Absolutely.

Once they have finished cleaning the shattered bowl up, Stretch refuses Edge’s offer of further help, insisting he is a guest. “I’ll be collecting you before breakfast, if that is acceptable, sir?”

Edge nods, confirming it, before they part ways, and he continues his journey through the house. It’s huge. He finds multiple bedrooms, at least three parlours, a smoking room, a goddamn ball room, and, much to his delight, a library. It’s behind a huge wooden door, and the walls are covered in books from floor to ceiling. He gapes in awe as he stares; there must be thousands of them. That a single family could own so many books-

He drags his fingers over the leather-bound books, inhaling the heavy scent of old books. As he carefully pulls one out, he’s stiff. In the back of his mind, he worries he’ll break it, but he cannot resist. The title reads in golden letters on the back. _Jane Eyre_ by Charlotte Brontë. Glancing toward the door, he gently opens it. He breathes in. He should be working, he’s not here to read – hell, he doesn’t know if he’s allowed – but…

Just a moment. He hasn’t read _Jane Eyre_ yet. He sits down in one of the armchairs of dark leather by the wall, before blinking, staring down at it. Edge isn’t sure when he had walked there. But that was unimportant. He glances at the grandfather clock on the other side of the room. He had a good while before breakfast, so he should be able to do this without being noticed.

* * *

“Oh!” He jumps at the exclamation, fumbling as he almost drops the book. As he grips it tight, he twists in the armchair, so he can look toward the door. There Blue stands, relief evident on his face as he steps inside. “There you are, Detective Serif. We’ve been looking for you!”

Edge fights down a blush as he closes the book carefully, rising. The other chuckles. “Oh, don’t look so ashamed, Detective. It’s quite understandable you got stuck. The library truly is marvellous, is it not? The Gasters have collected these books for centuries. As long as you’re careful, you’re more than welcome to read them.”

“Thank you,” Edge replies, torn between formality and honest gratitude. In the end, he smiles faintly. “I apologize for disappearing.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. But we better hurry, everyone else is already at breakfast.” Blue picks the book out of his hand, placing it on a table, before he rushes Edge out of the room. _Everyone_? he thinks, but doesn’t have time to ask before he’s ushered through the hallways toward another part of the manor house.

Soon, Blue holds the door open for him as he steps into a small dinner room. The floor is covered with a Persian carpet, and a small table stands in the middle of it. He raises an eyebrow in surprise as he finds not only Sir Razz is there, at the head off the table, but at his side sits yet another skeleton. One in a suit in the fashion of the late last decade, and with a huge scar running over his socket. Edge fights the urge to lift his hand to his own scars. Claw marks from a fight when he was a teen.

Both of them turn to look at him as he steps in, and he nods in greeting. Sir Razz smiles politely, gesturing for him to take a seat. Before he can grab a chair, Stretch is there – and where the hell did he come from? – and pulls it out for him. Edge’s posture is tense as he allows the other to help him into his seat.

Once he’s in place, Sir Razz gestures between him and the stranger. Said stranger is staring at him, regarding him sceptically. Almost hostilely. Sir Razz either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, as he says, “Detective Serif, this is Detective Inspector Red Fuente of the Deadford Police. He is the one assigned to my late husband’s case. Inspector Fuente, this is Detective Edge Serif, and he will work on the case as well. I expect you to cooperate.”

“Of course, sir.” Inspector Fuente’s voice is stiff as he continues to glare Edge down.

Edge meets his gaze without blinking. “As you wish.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a tag I initally forgot!

The breakfast is uncomfortable, at least to Edge. Inspector Fuente doesn’t more than glance at him at times, speaking only to Sir Razz. Sir Razz only graces Edge with a few words. The food is delicious, however. A true English breakfast. There’s tea and eggs and beans and sausage and toast. He hasn’t seen so much food for three people in his life; for it is only for three. Neither Stretch nor Blue eats with them. Instead Stretch is serving tea and food, and where Blue is, Edge doesn’t know. He has left.

He eats until he’s so full he can’t get another bite down. His stomach feels heavy. Then he reaches for the teapot again, only for his hands to once more be ushered away as Stretch grabs it instead, pouring the tea into his cup. Discomfort creeps up his spine as he watches. Being served like this feels unnatural, and he isn’t enjoying it.

Once breakfast is over, however, Sir Razz stands, he looks straight at Inspector Fuente. “Why don’t you show Detective Serif the crime scene, so he can say what he thinks, Inspector?” His voice is steely.

“Good idea, sir,” Inspector Fuente replies politely, even as his gaze darts over to Edge, full of disgruntlement. What the fuck Edge has done him, he doesn’t know. He hasn’t interacted with the Police since he was sixteen and his mother died. Therefore, he simply mirrors the expression.

Sir Razz smiles at him. “Good luck, Detective.”

“Thank you, sir,” Edge says, a smirk playing on his face. “But I don’t need luck.”

The other chuckles, and then Inspector Fuente grunts out something Edge can’t hear. But he starts walking, so he can only assume they’re going to look at the corpse. His soul skips a beat. Brilliant. His first ever murder case was about to begin.

They walk in silence through the first hallway, before Edge sighs. Well then. If that’s how the Inspector is going to be, then he’s just going to have to be the greater one here. As always. “So, Inspector,” he begins, making the other twitch. “How long have you been on the case?”

“Two days,” Inspector Fuente replies stiffly, not looking at him. “Not much have shown up yet. We believe th’ cause of death to be poisoning, but Sir Razz refused to send the body to an autopsy before ‘the detective’ had looked at it.”

Nodding, Edge clasps his hands behind his back. The other walks with his hands deep into his suit pockets, a perpetual scowl on his face. Soon, they reach a door. Inspector Fuente fishes up a brass key from his pocket and stick it into the keyhole. It clicks, and the door slides open. Immediately, an insufferable smell of rotten hits Edge, and he coughs. The other smirks. Waving a hand before his nose, the inspector steps inside, waving for him to follow. As he does, the door closes behind him.

It’s a music room. A sleek grand piano stands in the middle of the room. By the wall there’s a harp, and a couple cellos. Violins hang on the flowery walls. And on the floor, just by a white couch, a body lies. His eyes widen as he steps closer, regarding it carefully. The skeleton is dressed in an elegant, black suit; Edge assumes it’s the latest fashion. It’s stained with something dark red, however. Blood? He’s curled up in a foetal position, and his face looks like it was distorted in pain before death made the muscles relax. Glass is shattered on the floor around him, together with more of the red. Not blood. Wine.

“Poisoned wine?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Probably. A sample is in for analysis.”

When he turns around, the inspector is wearing gloves, kneeling by the corpse. He looks up at him, exasperation written on his face. “Well? Yer here, what do ya think?”

Quickly pulling on his own gloves, Edge joins him at the ground. He hums, studying the lordling’s – was that the right term? He didn’t know much about the British aristocracy – face. Both his sockets were closed, and two huge cracks ran from them. Briefly, he wonders how someone like Sir Gaster could’ve gotten hurt in such a way. His arms had obviously been held around his stomach as he died, and as he a, is on the floor, and b, is lying on literal glass, Edge can only assume he’d fallen.

He tilts the man’s head. A couple superficial scratches had drawn blood from colliding with glass, but it was hardly enough to make true damage. _Hm_. Pulling at the body, studying it from different angles, Edge nods. “I agree.”

The inspector blinks, and Edge huffs. “Poison.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“So. Why do you hate me already, Inspector? Have we met before? Did I take your lunch money in high school?” he carelessly asks as he slowly pulls of his gloves, one finger at a time. Inspector Fuente snorts.  

“As if I would’ve gone to school in the slum, Detective.” As Edge flinches, twisting around to stare at him, he grins. “Yeah I know a lot about you. I wasn’t just about to allow Sir Razz to bring in a detective without at least making sure you didn’t have a criminal record.” He leans against the wall, crossing his arms, as he meets Edge’s gaze. “This is _my_ case. My _first_ major case. I’m not about to allow a servant class _private detective_ to cause trouble for me. ‘M sure you can understand.”

“Perfectly,” Edge replies coldly. Very well then, if that is how the other want to play. He stands, towering over the other. The inspector doesn’t flinch. “Very well. I will keep out of your way if you keep out of mine. If you’re right about me, then you shouldn’t need to worry about me solving it before you, _Inspector_.”

“I don’t.” His voice is stiff.

Nodding sharply, Edge turns his back toward him. “I’ll show myself out. There is nothing else to do in here anyway.”

They don’t exchange another word as Edge leaves the murder scene behind. He doesn’t slam the door, however much he itches to do so. It would just prove the other right in whatever prejudices he may have about ‘Edge’s kind.’

The manor is a labyrinth, and he’s soon lost. The walls are lined with portraits that all look the same, outside of their clothing – there must be centuries of fashion depicted. His soul is still pounding in fury as he finds yet another stairwell leading down, and as he glances out a window, he realizes it must go beneath the ground. Into the basement. The stairwell is narrow and wooden, and has a door, although it is open.

After a moment of hesitation, Edge steps into the badly lit void. It creaks beneath his shoes. Immediately, the air feels colder, and he exhales slowly. Some of the rage leaves him. He sighs. What the fuck did he expect anyway. People of higher standing never would look at him as an equal. Not even when he, as he hadn’t owned any stocks, actually had more money than most of the folks who had been middle class three years ago and now lives in cardboard boxes on the street. The corner of his mouth twitches. Having both an apartment – if shared with roommates – and an office wasn’t bad at all in these times.

And why would he give a damn what anyone thought, especially some policeman he’d just met?

The basement continued with a narrow hallway, leading into multiple rooms. Most of them seemed abandoned, or used as storage, when he glances inside. Once upon a time it could have been the servants’ quarters, Edge imagines. He certainly hopes Blue and Stretch didn’t live down here now – it can’t be healthy to live underground.

Suddenly, he’s hit by a delicious scent. His mouth waters. Freshly baked bread. He’d lived next to a bakery when he was a kid, he’d recognize it anywhere. Curious, he follows the narrow path until he steps into yet another room. It’s huge, with a wooden bench in the middle. The walls are lined more benches, and kitchen machines such as what seems like a very modern gas stove. An old-fashioned wood oven is, however, open by the opposite wall. Golden bread sits on a table nearby.

By the bench in the middle stands yet another skeleton, thoroughly working a dough. He looks up as Edge steps inside, a smile lighting up his face. “Oh! Hello!”

“Good day,” Edge greets, raising a hand.

“Are you the detective Sir Razz was going to bring in? I can only assume so, since we don’t have a lot of visitors these days,” the skeleton – the cook, he guesses, asks, and as Edge nods, his smile widens. Also he speaks with a British accent. Wiping his hands off on his apron, he steps around the bench, so he can offer one of them to him. “I’m Papyrus Safont – the cook! A pleasure to meet you!”

“Detective Edge Serif.” He shakes the offered hand, unable to keep himself from smiling. Papyrus’ energy certainly seems infective. “Were you close to the deceased?”

The other deflates somewhat, his smile falling. He shakes his head. “No, thankfully not. I mostly stay down here in the kitchen, and Doctor Gaster never would’ve stepped into the basement. This is the servants’ parts of the building.”

Edge raises an eyebrow as Papyrus gestures for him to come in. The kitchen is warm and smells heavenly, and when he’s offered a biscuit, he doesn’t hesitate to take one. “Thankfully?”

Biting on his lower jaw, Papyrus fiddles for a moment before he nods. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, sir, but Doctor Gaster wasn’t… the best person. Like I said, I hardly ever spoke with him, but Blue and Stretch – _especially_ Stretch, as the butler – got the worst of it. And I’m not certain, but he may have been a bit unkind against Sir Razz as well? I know Blue sometimes was fuming, and it wasn’t for his own sake. Blue cares a lot about Sir Razz, you see.” He sighs, but then his smile returns. “Even so, it’s very sad what happened to him.”

“Truly,” Edge nods, biting down on the biscuit. “Well, this has been highly informative, and it was a pleasure to meet you, but I should probably go back upstairs. We’ll see each other again, though, I am certain.”

“Oh!” Papyrus’ eyes widen comically. But he nods, and smiles, although Edge thinks he can read disappointment in the other’s expression. “Of course! I won’t keep you, sir. I should return to my bread too.”

Nodding back, Edge smiles. “The biscuit was delicious, thank you. You seem to be a wonderful cook.”

“Thank you!” He beams. Then, without warning, he gestures toward the door, shooing Edge towards it. “But you are right, you must go. Go solve the murder, Detective!”

“Don’t worry.” Edge smirks, waving once as he steps out of the kitchen. “I will.”

* * *

Well upstairs again, Edge searches through the manor until he can find a way outside. By now, it was midday. The sky is grey, with only a few sunrays finding their way through the heavy cloud cover. A chilly breeze makes the few, now brown, leaves still on the trees flutter. The leaves already on the ground crackle as he steps on them, breathing in the cold air. It’s strangely fresh, and the world is quiet. Disconcertingly quiet. There’s no lingering taste of oil or smoke in the air, and no sound of cars or sirens. Just the wind, and his footsteps. His shoulders sink as he relaxes into the quiet. It’s the first time he can remember where it’s quiet. He’s never left the city before.

Sitting down on a wooden bench with black-painted iron armrests, he picks up a cigar from the box he carries in his coat’s inner pocket, and lights it with a match he carries there as well. Smoke rise toward the sky as he puffs on it, leaning his elbow on the armrest and his head on his hand. Staring at nothing, he breathes in a mouthful of smoke. So as for now, looking at the corpse will do him no good. He’ll have to take a better look on the crime scene, however, once he can get a key, so he won’t have to _bother_ Inspector Fuente. He rolls his eyes at the thought.

Until then, he could consider the suspects: everyone.

Sir Razz was maybe not the likeliest choice simply because he had hired a private detective _as well_ as a detective inspector from the Police force, but he still had motive. According to what the cook had mentioned, it wasn’t unlikely Doctor Gaster had been a substandard husband, and then there was of course the fortune he had inherited now when his husband was dead.

Then there were the Fontaine brothers. Suddenly Stretch’s reaction this morning made sense. They both most certainly had a motive, if Papyrus had spoken the truth. Revenge, or pure fear for anything that may come.

And then there was Papyrus. Admittedly, right now, he seemed the least likely one to have committed the murder, but Edge would never claim anyone innocent without a good reason. Perhaps he did it to protect one of the others or had actually encountered the doctor more than he said. There is probably some motive to dig up.

At this point, Edge’s biggest advantage over the inspector is that he’d always been good with people, despite his general personality. And from what he’d seen, the same did not apply to the inspector. He seems like your classical middle- or upper-class snob. Looking down on the servant class. Letting out a chuckle, he grins sharply and stands. He rolls the cigar as he begins to take a slow stroll through the garden. The manor house is lined with thorny bushes and the wing farthest away from the road is covered in poison ivy.

Eventually, he reaches a smaller enclosure. It’s full of garden boxes with green plants inside. Kneeling by the side of one, he recognizes some of it as peppermint. And that tiny purple bush is lavender. An herb garden. Just by its side, an inconspicuous brown door resides, and Edge assumes it leads down into the kitchens. An few apple trees grow nearby, with fruit stubbornly clinging to the bare twigs.

Suddenly, the door crashes open, and Edge jumps, his soul skipping a beat. Twisting around, he finds himself face to face with a wide-eyed Stretch. The other blinks rapidly before visibly relaxing, giving him a polite smile. “Oh, good day, sir. I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Oh?”

“Non-servants rarely visit the herb garden,” Stretch explains, smiling faintly. “The Gasters and their guests usually send us if they wish anything from here.”

The corner of Edge’s mouth tilts upwards. “Well. I imagine you already figured it out, but I am quite certain you’re of more respectable birth than I am. At least you know who your father is.”

The other’s eyes widen even more, his mouth parting somewhat. It looks quite comical. Snorting, Edge clasps his hands behind his back. “I am not ashamed, and as I assume Inspector Fuente has told Sir Razz everything about my past, I see no reason to hide it.”

“O-oh.” For a moment, Stretch seems speechless, gaping dumbly. Then he straightens, closes his mouth, and smiles. “Well then. We’re approaching a new time, sir. In the future, perhaps no one’ll care at all.”

“Hopefully,” Edge muses. Imagine that. A world where his lowly birth wouldn’t matter. So much had already changed since the Great War, and more change was to come, he is certain of that. Then he huffs, grinning crookedly at Stretch. “You may call me by my name, Stretch. Like I said, you’re more respectable than I am.”

Stretch’s eyebrows rise, and he stills for a moment. Then he smiles, nodding his head. “Thank you, si- Edge. In private. My brother and Sir Razz wouldn’t like it.”

Shrugging, Edge bows down to pick a peppermint leaf and sticks into his mouth. Delicious. “As you wish.”

Suddenly, Stretch twitches, and fast as lightning fishes up the pocket watch in his vest pocket. “Oh fuck- pardon. I’ve got to go, Sir Razz should’ve had his tea ages ago.”

Nodding, Edge steps out of the way, allowing the other to quickly pick some herbs before hurrying inside through the small door again. For a moment, he considers following, but doesn’t. Turning around, he makes his way back inside, searching for Blue. Perhaps it was time to have a chat with him.

* * *

After searching through the manor, he finds Blue in a small study close to Sir Razz’s own rooms. The door stands open, and so he only knocks lightly on the door before stepping inside as Blue looks up, waving for him to do so. The study has pale blue walls, a few bookcases, and a writing desk full of paper and binders. Blue sits bowed over them, a fountain pen in hand.

“Pardon me as I finish up, sir,” he says apologetically as Edge sits in a brown chair on the other side of the desk.

Edge shakes his head. “No hurry.”

Nodding, smiling gratefully, Blue continues to scribble on the papers for a while, before carefully putting it all down into his desk drawers, effectively clearing the desk. “My apologies. I’m helping Sir Razz figure out Doctor Gaster’s economy – he wouldn’t let anyone else look at it before he died, so we don’t really know how much money we have yet, and what it goes to.” Clasping his hands on top of the desk, he shakes his head. “But that’s no issue of yours, of course. We will pay you sufficiently. Now, how can I help you, sir?”

Folding his hands in his lap and straightening his back, Edge meets his gaze. His expression is fully serious as he looks at the shorter. “I’d like to have a chat about the inhabitants of the manor – anyone who were around on the time of the crime. I assume you realize you’re all suspects?”

“Yes.” Blue’s voice is dry, but he nods, still smiling. “Inspector Fuente has interviewed us all. We were expecting the same from you. What do you wish to know?”

“The only inhabitants of Duskshire Manor are Sir Razz, you, Stretch, and Papyrus, correct?” Blue nods. “And there was no one else here that night?”

“There was only us. And, as Inspector Fuente has let us know, there are no signs of forced entry. The death was also after midnight, as that was the last time any of us saw him, and so everything was locked.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Edge pulls a notebook out of another inner-pocket. Inner-pockets are so damn useful. He scribbles a few words down with his fountain pen. “And Papyrus has let me know Doctor Gaster wasn’t the kindest employer. Did you hold any grudges?”

Blue blinks, an expression of affront appearing on his face. Straightening in his chair, he shakes his head firmly. “It is true the doctor had little patience for mistakes, sir, but my family have been proud servants of the Gaster family for _generations_ , ever since my great great grandfather moved to England from France. I would never do anything to disgrace us in such a way, and neither would my brother. We are honourable, hard-working people.”

“I don’t mean to offend,” Edge replies mildly. That was a bit unexpected. He hadn’t thoughts Blue would react that strongly.

Sighing, Blue shakes his head again, softer this time. “My apologies, sir. Mother always did tell me I have a short temper. Ask away.”

After a moment of silence, Edge looks him straight into the eyes. “Did the doctor ever lay a hand on you?”


	3. Chapter 3

Blue twitches. It’s almost unnoticeable, but Edge is used to look for the most minor changes in body language. He tilts his head, twirling the pen in his hand. The clock standing in one of the bookcases ticks on, uncaring about its owner’s reaction.

“No,” Blue then says firmly. “Never.”

Edge hums and nods. For now, he was going to take Blue’s word for it. He wasn’t a police officer; he could be dismissed if he overstepped his boundaries, and he needed to figure out where those were before he could start investigating for real. Even if the other’s reaction was countering his words. “I am glad to hear that,” he replies, leaning forward. “And no one else either?”

“No.” That ended that discussion. Curious.

Crossing his legs, Edge nods again. Scratches a few words down in his notebook as he considers his next questions. “What did you think of your employer, Mr. Fontaine?”

Blue hesitates, but then he sighs. After a short moment, he pulls open a drawer, fishing out a cigarette. He glances at Edge, but when Edge shakes his head – _no, he doesn’t mind_ – he quickly puts it between his teeth and lights it before inhaling deeply. The smoke trails from his mouth as he breathes out again. Well. That’s telling about Doctor Gaster’s character, Edge would say.

Finally, Blue takes the cigarette into his hand, rolling it between his fingers. “Mr. Serif, we Fontaines have, as I said, served the Gasters for generations. We are raised into it. So you must forgive me if I have a hard time speaking ill of my former employer – it’s defying everything I have been taught. You will find my brother is the same, if you haven’t already.” Edge nods. He can understand that. Blue flashes him a faint smile. “Doctor Gaster wasn’t… the nicest person. A _brilliant_ scientist – he got his doctorate at Oxford. And a _great_ man. He took a year pause from his studies to help Britain in the Great War. Spent a full year abroad, much to his late mother’s despair. I was a child at the time, but I remember brewing Dame Gaster, may she rest in peace, calming tea before she dared open the letters he wrote her.”

Edge nodded again, although impatience began coiling within. This was good information to have – to a certain extent, he wasn’t very interested in Blue brewing tea – but would the other get to the point already? Blue wasn’t looking at him, instead staring at the cigarette between his fingers. “Yes, the Doctor did a lot of great things. But-” He paused. “But he wasn’t kind. He didn’t have the patience or time to deal with the woes of us servants, especially not when our staff was bigger. In all honesty, I don’t think he even noticed we were there, even as we were serving him, most of the time. Not unless we did mistakes, and so, inconvenienced him. I can’t blame him.” He breathes in the cigarette again, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards. “We’re here to make the family’s life easier, not to cause trouble.”

Being a servant sounds exhausting. Edge has never been happier that his mother had worked in a laundry factory rather than as a domestic servant. It paid less, but it gave freedom domestic servants didn’t have. And if she’d worked as a housemaid, then he likely would have gone into service as well, and he can’t think of anything he would’ve liked less. He’d rather have stayed at the steel mill and that had been literal hell.

Just melting into the background and living to please someone else- no fucking thank you. There was one reason he’d taken this economically unsafe job, and that was to be able to do whatever the fuck he pleased, rather than to live at someone else’s good graces, be it a master of the house, a factory owner, or God Himself. Edge isn’t a religious man, but once he dies and come face to face to God, he’d have a few choice words for Him. Unconsciously, he strokes his fingers over the vicious scar running along his wrist. He’d almost lost his hand that time. A just God wouldn’t let a fifteen-year-old get damaged for life in a factory.

Not that he minds any of his scars anymore. If nothing else, they serve to make him look intimidating.

He meets Blue’s eyes, twitches, and pulls his hand back into his lap. The other’s eyes shine with concern as he leans forward. Some of the smoke hits Edge’s face. “Does it hurt, sir? I can get a liniment if you need?”

“No, not at all.” He shakes his head, exhaling slowly to keep in an embarrassed flush. “Pardon, I got distracted for a moment. You were saying?”

Nodding, Blue leans back in his chair. “Did you need anything else?”

“Just two things. I’d like you to describe the motives everyone who was in the manor at the night of the murder may have had to commit it. Papyrus, Stretch, and Sir Razz. Anything you can think of. And where were you at the night of the murder?”

“Very well, sir.” Blue plucks the cigarette out of his mouth, extinguishing it on an empty silver plate in the corner of his desk. Some sort of fancy ashtray, Edge assumes when he leaves it lying there. “I was in here, doing the same thing as I am now: trying to sort out the Gasters’ assets. No, I do not have an alibi, as I was alone in here – Inspector Fuente already asked.  As for motives, Sir Razz’s is obvious: he has inherited money, Duskshire Manor, and all the Gasters’ property back in England, such as a forest in Cumbria. He was also never very fond of the idea of carrying children, which, obviously, was required of him as the spouse of the last member of the Gaster family. The ancient, honourable Gaster family is now extinct, and he has no husband to give him children.

 My brother might’ve been fed up with the doctor’s sometimes ill treatment of us – he got the worst of it, no matter how I tried to protect him. And Papyrus- Well. He is friendly and sweet, but he never seemed to like the doctor much, even if he tried to hide it, as any servant with an ounce of wit would. Though it may have to do with the fact that on his very first day working for us, he witnessed Doctor Gaster thoroughly scold my brother in front of the guests who were over for tea. He’s foreign, did you know? I believe he came to England from Bulgaria during the war. You can’t hear it when he speaks, but his first language is not actually English.”

Oh? That was interesting information. He’d absolutely have to ask more about that, later. With a nod, he stands up. “Thank you for your time, Mr Fontaine. I really appreciate it.”

“No worries,” Blue replies, following suit. His chair scrapes against the floor as he moves out of it. “Oh, and do call me Blue, sir. There’s too many Mr Fontaines in this household, so me and my brother prefer to give that title to our father.”

Humming, he nods. “As you wish, Blue. If you wish, then, you may call me Edge. I’ll show myself out. I have some other people to talk to.”

“Thank you, sir,” Blue says. He shakes his head. “But I cannot. It wouldn’t be proper.”

Edge shrugs. “Whichever makes you comfortable.”

With another nod, he leaves.

* * *

Who to speak to now? Edge strolled through the hallways of the manor, still trying to figure out how to navigate the labyrinth of doors and staircases, as he heard a scratching. Raising an eyebrow, he quiets his steps as he follows the sound. He stops outside of a dark wooden door, pressing his ear against it. The scratching grows louder, and is that _meowing_?

Curious, he takes a step back, placing a hand on the doorknob. At first it doesn’t move, but as he puts more weight on it, the door slides open. His eyes widen as he stares down in front of him, on a small, grey cat, who stares back, obviously confused where its scratching wall had gone. The room is a mess: there’s an old couch full of claw marks, the yellow wallpaper is faded and scratched into pieces, and four cats lounge at different places in the room. It’s otherwise empty.

Suddenly, the cat seems to get over its confusion, and Edge can’t help but smile as it slowly blinks before stroking itself against his leg. Kneeling, he reaches out a hand for it to smell, and it immediately headbutts him. “You’re a trusting one, huh?” he murmurs, scratching its jaw. It purrs loudly.

There come quiet thumps as the other cats jumps down from the couch or the window in the back of the room and comes up to him. One of them, a tabby with scarred ears, stares at him suspiciously, but the others are eager to be petted.

His smile grows on his face as he strokes them, although he rocks on his feet. His legs start to ache from the position, and after glancing around to check no one’s around, he sits down on the floor, cross-legged. The grey cat takes the opportunity to lay down in his lap. Edge’s soul warms as it licks his hand. Truly a strange cat.

“Oh come _on_ ,” a voice comes from behind, and Edge twists his neck to see Stretch standing there, staring at the cats in exasperation. There’s an apology in his eyes as his gaze flickers up to Edge, but nonetheless he grips the feather-duster he’s holding tighter as he slowly approaches. The tabby cat retreats into the room, but the others don’t move a centimetre. “How did you get in _again_?”’

Unable to help it, Edge chuckles at the defeat in the  other’s voice as he strokes the head of one of the cats. “I take it they don’t belong to you or Sir Razz?”

“God no.” The passion in his exclamation makes Edge raises an eyebrow. Stretch shakes his head, a crooked grin appearing on his face. “Sir Razz _hates_ cats. And my brother isn’t a fan either. I don’t have much of an opinion on them, but Sir Razz can’t tolerate them. And yet these ones _somehow_ keep finding their way into this room.”

Humming, Edge turns to look at the cats. They’re purring loudly, and the grey one has closed its eyes, breathing slowly. He’d almost think it had fallen asleep, hadn’t he known it was highly unlikely a cat would trust him that much that quickly. “How can anyone hate these darlings?” he mused. Cats were a gift to the world. He’d always wanted one, but it had never been the right time.

Stretch shrugged. “Don’t let them enter the rest of the house, si- Edge. Sir Razz would throw a fit.”

“Understood.” He paused before sweeping out with his hand. “If you aren’t extremely busy, and your suit won’t be destroyed, I’d like a chat with you about the murder, but it seems like a shame to wake her up.” He pointed at the grey cat.

Smiling in amusement, Stretch slides down next to him, waving away the cat who attempted to take a close look at him. Terrible, in Edge’s opinion. Not accepting a cat’s love ought to be a horrible crime. Sure, this was America, and everyone had the right to their opinion, or at least that’s what people liked to say and whether it was true or not could be debated, but those who didn’t adore cats were _wrong_.

“What do you want to know?”

“Where were you at the time of the murder?”

Stretch leaned up against the wall behind them in the narrow hallway, staring up at the ceiling. “I was cleaning the trophy room. Ever since Sir Razz dismissed the maids, you know, because of the crash, I am the one doing most of the lighter cleaning here. Both Blue and Papyrus assist sometimes but we all have our duties and our days are busy.”

Edge nods, pulling out his notebook again. He moves slowly, carefully, as to not bother the cat. It was a long time since he had the opportunity to get close to a cat and he didn’t want to waste it. He scribbles it down, his letters fluent and elegant. If there was one thing he’d excelled at back in school, it was handwriting. “Can anyone confirm that?”

“Blue makes the list of duties. As the butler, that’s my job, but he’s actually the one who keeps the household running. You can check it to see that I should’ve been doing exactly that. But no one was around, no.”

He writes that down as well. In the corner of his eye, he can see Stretch glance down on his notebook. It was leather-bound with black leather, quite elegant if Edge could say it himself. He’d bought it cheaply from a desperate book salesman. “And what did you think of Doctor Gaster, Stretch?”

Just like his brother had done before, Stretch flinches almost unnoticeably. His face stays carefully neutral, but a flicker in his eyes betrays him. “Doctor Gaster, as every Gaster, was brilliant. A great man.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, but very well. How did he _treat_ you?” He watches extra carefully for the other’s reaction.

 A sardonic smile lights up Stretch’s face. “You know to ask the right questions, don’t you?” Edge nods, not bothering to deny it. “Don’t tell my brother how disrespectful I am being, but the doctor was vile. Oh, I’ve seen worse, home in England. At the very least, he never… acted _improperly_ against any member of the staff, for example. He would’ve seen it as quite tasteless. But he had zero patience for mistakes, however small they were, and I’ve been chewed out in front of London’s high society one too many times for serving the wrong kind of tea one too many times to mourn his death. It’s quite difficult to keep a polite front up when someone you grew up with, although the doctor was a couple years older, is telling you you’re useless in front of the Duke of Cambridge. But I manage. Pardon, managed.”

For a moment, Edge was stunned. How the fuck was he supposed to answer to that. Stretch met his eyes, the sardonic smile still on his face, as he let out a quiet chuckle. “Damn, I could use a cigarette. Those aren’t memories I particularly enjoy remembering.”

Without a word, Edge fishes up a cigar and his lighter from his other pocket, handing it to Stretch. He usually didn’t share, but sometimes you had to make sacrifices. Even if money was his least favourite sacrifice to make, and those cigars weren’t cheap. Because he was stupid enough to have standards. Stretch takes it with a grateful smile, flicking the lighter until a flame appeared. He slowly inhales, and the smoke rose toward the ceiling as he opens his mouth. Edge has never managed to figure out how the smoke didn’t escape through the other various holes in their skulls.

After trying to figure out what to say, and failing, he eventually decides to say nothing. It was none of his business anyway. “And what do you think the motives of Blue, Sir Razz, and Papyrus could be?”

Stretch gives similar answers as Blue on Sir Razz and Papyrus, before falling quiet for a while as he reaches his brother’s turn, staring out the window in the cat room. Eventually, he sighs.

“I suppose Blue could’ve done it to protect Sir Razz? Doctor Gaster wouldn’t have been as tasteless as being violent against his husband – in fact, he believed violence was ‘the way of brutes’, as he enjoyed saying – but he did have… expectations. For one, Sir Razz would’ve had to carry his heirs one day, even though he managed to put it off until the very end. It was made clear long before the wedding. Aristocrats need heirs, of course. And his harsh criticism wasn’t only for the staff. It’s not my place to tell, and Blue would kill me if he knew, but I once heard him say Sir Razz was being ‘wasteful and acting idiotic and shallow’ for throwing parties.”

Wow. Edge likes the murderée less and less with every word he hears about him. Stretch turned to him, holding his gaze. The smile was completely gone as he stared at Edge. “But my brother would _never_ , I need you to understand that, sir. You’ll never meet someone as loyal as Blue, and he is so proud of our generations at the Gasters’ service. He’d _die_ before he’d hurt anyone bearing that name.”

Honestly, that had been the impression Edge got as well. But he had the motive, and he will never disqualify anyone from the list of suspects without a very good reason. Nonetheless, he nods, and Stretch relaxes, puffing on the cigar. “Any other questions?”

“No,” Edge says, flipping the notebook closed. It closes with a satisfying thump. Leaning back against the wall as well, he scratches the grey cat’s side, and it leans into his touch. “Not at the moment.”

* * *

Two hours later, after spending some more time in silence with Stretch and the cats, and then taking another look at the body – with no new results – Edge finds himself watching in confusion as Stretch, carrying a tea tray, looks out the window toward the gate, yelps, and hurries away. A car slowly makes its way through the garden, toward the entrance door, and within moments, Stretch returns with Blue in his trails. Stretch takes position by the door as Blue stands nearby, almost in attention.

Edge lingers by the corner, uncertain about what the hell is going on. The car stops just outside the door – a black Mercedes-Benz, he realizes, staring in awe, and the latest model too – and someone steps out, but their coat collar and hat hides their face, protecting against the wind he can hear whining outside, tearing at the bare trees. The stranger steps up the few stairs leading to the door, and Stretch immediately opens the door, letting whoever it is inside.

Then, before the stranger can utter a word, he slides their elegant overcoat off them, and offers to take his hat, which he is given. Edge blinks as he realizes it’s yet another skeleton, this time wearing a casual suit of the very latest fashion. Their eyelights are dark orange, and a gold tooth glimmers in the light of the chandelier.

“Mr Ashton,” Blue greets, bowing his head. His hands are neatly clasped behind his back. “A pleasure to have you back.”

The skeleton – Mr Ashton, apparently – nods, their gaze sweeping over the room. “Where’s my brother, Blue?”

Just as Blue opens his mouth to reply, and Stretch starts to retreat into the closet, high heels click against the floor, and Sir Razz rounds the corner, and stops in his tracks. His eyes widen. “ _Slim_. When did you get back from Europe?”

With a few, long strides, Mr Ashton faces Sir Razz, smiling faintly. “Three AM. I cut the trip short when I heard the news.”

“What happened with your _tooth_?”

Mr Ashton chuckles, raising a finger to the golden tooth. “Bar fight. You know me, ever the disappointment. I do wonder what Mother will say. Personally, I think it’s quite charming.”

At first, Sir Razz frowns, but as quick as a change of weather in spring, his expression turns into a beam and he embraces the taller. Mr Ashton bows down, hugging him back.  A tear slides down Sir Razz’s cheek. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, bro.”

Once they part, Sir Razz takes a step back, looking straight at Edge. Straightening his back, he steps out from his little hiding place, and Sir Razz gestures between him and the visitor. “Detective Serif, meet my brother, Mr Slim Ashton. Slim, this is the private detective I hired. Detective Edge Serif.”

“A pleasure, sir,” Edge greets politely, stepping up to them and offering his hand.

Mr Ashton takes it, squeezing his hand hard. It takes all Edge’s strength of will to keep a straight face as the other regards him. He squeezes back, and the corner of Mr Ashton’s mouth twists upwards. “Same to you, Detective.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look Slim is here! That wasn't planned and I don't need more characters to keep track off but he's here!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a short visit from [Lady Kit's Twistfell Papyrus](https://kitstwistfellau.tumblr.com/), simply because I love him.

Soon, Sir Razz and his brother move to leave the entrance hall behind, but before they can do so, the door shrieks as it opens again, making Edge wince. Insufferable noise. A skeleton peeks inside. Their skull is cracked, and they have only one eyelight, which is the colour of pure gold. They’re grinning as their eye sweep over the room before they look at Mr Ashton, who nods.

“Take in the bags, Twist,” he says, and the skeleton – Twist – salutes lazily.

“Will do, sir,” he replies cheerfully before plopping outside again. His accent is difficult to place, but it’s absolutely American.

Edge takes a step back as Sir Razz and Mr Ashton exit, quietly catching up with each other, and leans against the wall as he pretends not to listen. All in all, he doesn’t learn much: Sir Razz lets his brother know about what happened to his husband, and he finds out Mr Ashton had apparently taken an unplanned ‘business trip’ to Europe after refusing yet another marriage suggested by Mr and Mrs Ashton. The Ashtons certainly seems to be doing quite well, despite the state of the country’s economy.

In the back of his mind, he knows he recognizes that name. Ashton. It rings incredibly familiar, but he cannot place it.

He hears Sir Razz quietly scold his brother as they disappear around the corner, followed by Blue. Immediately after, Stretch reappears just in time for the doors to be thrown open and Twist, carrying multiple bags, stumbles in and drops them to the ground. Stretch winces, but Twist seems unbothered as he raises a hand and waves eagerly.

“Stretch! How’s it goin’, darlin’?” he asks, striding straight up to Stretch and throwing an arm over his shoulder. Edge raises an eyebrow from where he’s watching.

Chuckling, Stretch ducks out from beneath his arm and goes to pick up the bags. At least, that’s what Edge assumes he is doing, but then he just stands among them without actually doing it as Twist catches up with him again. He glances the way the others went, and then toward Edge, a question in his gaze. Edge shakes his head in confirmation that he’s not going to tell anyone what’s happening. But he’s not about to leave either, unless they ask it of him. Stretch nods back.

“Just fine, considering the circumstances.” He turns to Twist again, grinning, and his smile is sincerer than any other expression he’s worn. He’s relaxed. “How was Europe?”

“Lotsa fun, France has a lot o’ great bars, and Monaco’s got th’ best casinos, but ya didn’t hear tha’ from me. Mrs Ashton would freak if she heard ‘er son went ta casinos. If ya ever can get time off ya should come wi’ us, sweetheart, ya’d enjoy yerself ‘m sure.” His grin widens, and he winks. Edge hums in consideration. Well, Mr Ashton doesn’t seem like he cares a lot about societal rules then, if Twist, who undeniably was some sort of servant, was as friendly with him as it seemed. Twist turned around, waving toward him, and Edge waves back in surprise. “An’ who’s this gentleman, sweetheart?”

Stretch’s smile grows as he gestures toward Edge, straightening, and Edge hears his voice change from the easy, natural pitch he had when talking with Twist to what Edge can only describe as his ‘official’ voice. “May I introduce Detective Edge Serif. Sir Razz hired him to investigate the murder.” Then the official tone suddenly disappears again, and he smirks. “Private detective and lover of cats. Detective, this is Twist, Mr Ashton’s chauffeur and unofficial companion.”

“Th’ lil’ burglars?”

“Yep.” Stretch plops on the ‘P’. “Rascals got into the house again.”

“Good, the darlings deserve some love.” Without warning, he twists around and hoists two of the bags off the ground.  “Welp, better get these up ta Slim’s room, my bro’s waitin’ fer me.”

“You’re not staying?” The disappointment is obvious in Stretch’s expression, and Edge can’t help but wonder what kind of relationship those two has.

Shaking his head, Twist smiles. “Nah. Haven’t seen Blackberry fer three months now, an’ Slim gave me paid time off ta go home an’ visit ‘im.”

“I ca-”

“Detective,” a rough voice interrupts, and all three of them twist around to see Inspector Fuente standing in the doorway. He’s frowning, but gestures for Edge to follow. Stretch immediately stiffens, the humour falling off his face, but Twist only nods his head in greeting without dropping his grin. “A word.”

Blinking, Edge nods goodbye to the two servants and follows the inspector out, bewildered. Their footsteps echoes between the walls of the manor. “I thought you despised my mere presence here, Inspector,” he says dryly, staring down at the stiff-shouldered policeman.

“Yes,” Inspector Fuente answers shamelessly, glaring at him. “But Doctor Gaster was an important man, and Sir Razz’s family even more so, and this case must be solved. Chief Commissioner Bennett telephoned me and gave me orders to cooperate with you.”

“I recognize his family name,” Edge comments, hiding his mixed feelings on the new development. On one hand, it would be great for his career if he solved the murder singlehandedly, but on the other, it will undoubtedly be easier with Inspector Fuente’s assistance. If nothing else, it is undeniable that a detective inspector is more experienced with serious crimes than he is. “Ashton, was it?”

The inspector lets out a surprised laugh, staring at him in disbelief. He stops mid-step before continuing to lead him upstairs. “Yeah. You don’t know who they are? Sir Razz’s father used to be governor of New York. The Ashtons are one of the richest, most influential families in the US. You can see why this case is of outmost importance, and why you _can’t mess it up_. You’ll destroy both our careers with one mistake, buddy. Be careful.”

 _Oh_. Breathing in slowly, to fight down the heat threatening to rush to his cheeks, Edge nods. Yeah, that’s right, he remembers reading about him in the newspaper. Then he stiffens as Inspector Fuente continues. Digging his claws into his palms until pain flashes through them, he sniffs. “I will do my best, Inspector.”

“Guess that’s all I can ask. We’re here.” Inspector Fuente stops outside a dark door and pulls up a key from his coat pocket. The lock clicks as the door opens, and he gestures for Edge to come in. It’s a study, Edge realizes, with a wall covered in photos of the crime scene and the suspects, and a writing desk full of papers and a typewriter. There’s a table with two armchairs by the wall, and a bottle of sriracha on the table between them. The wallpaper is pale golden with flowers on it, and an enormous window gives a grand view of the moors behind the manor. In the distance, he spots a village with a narrow gravel road leading that way from the manor.

Stepping inside, Edge steps past the desk, glancing down on the many papers covering it. Reports, charts, and one paper that in cursive letters reads _Dearest Mother_. He averts his eyes from that one. Reading personal correspondence without a very good reason is quite immoral. Acting as though he hasn’t seen it, he steps up to the wall covered in clues. There are pictures of all the house’s residents, with threads connecting them to different papers.

 _Papyrus Safont, born July 25, 1903 in Sofia, Bulgaria. Moved to London, England in 1914 with mother Vitoriya Dobromir. Father: Unknown, likely Spanish. Siblings: none._ Because of his surname, probably. Edge had known a Safont in school, and her parents were from Valencia.

_Razz Gaster, née Ashton, born May 1, 1905 in Albany, New York. Mother: Angelica Ashton, née Nelson. Father: Henry Ashton. Siblings: Slim Ashton._

_Blue Fontaine, born September 9, 1905 in Bath, Great Britain._ _Mother: Philippa Fontaine, née Marley._ _Father: Theodore Fontaine.  Siblings: Clara Fontaine, Stretch Fontaine,_

 _Stretch Fontaine, born December 28, 1906 in London, Great Britain._ _Mother: Philippa Fontaine, née Marley. Father: Theodore Fontaine. Siblings: Clara Fontaine, Blue Fontaine._

Blinking, he puts a finger over the unknown name. _Clara Fontaine_. Turning to look at Inspector Fuente, he taps a claw against it. “The Fontaines have a sister?”

“Yep.” The inspector sounds amused as he pulls out a drawer, picking up a file. As he flips it open, he reveals a photo of a skeleton in a knee-length dress leaning against a bar counter, a bottle of whisky in her hand. “Clara Fontaine, born 1899. She eloped the year before Sir Razz’s wedding and is now the owner of a Scottish tavern in Bibawik, Minnesota together with her Scottish _lover_ , Riley Johnson. To my knowledge, the Fontaines broke all contact with her, except the odd letter and photo she sends. She is the Fontaines’ great shame. Sir Razz has never met her.”

“So she has nothing with this to do,” Edge comments, and Inspector Fuente shakes his head. Continuing to study the wall, he nods slowly, turning to stare down at the other. He crosses his arms. “Very well, I will work with you. _If_ you stop coming with rude quips about my background, _sir_. I’ve worked _the skin off my bones_ to get where I am now, and _believe me_. I am _not_ going back to the factory.”

Inspector Fuente sniggers before nodding, putting the folder back in the drawer. He leans back against the desk, grinning up at him. “Fair enough. Just keep in mind I’ve solved murders before, kid, and you have not.”

“Don’t call me that, I’m thirty-two-years-old,” Edge growls as a faint feeling of nausea rises in him. Pale images of a suit-clad man leaning against his cane, telling him to ‘Stop screaming, kid, it’s not that bad,’ as he’s clutching his bleeding, half-crushed arm flashes behind his eyes. He raises his hand, placing it protectively over the remaining scars, and pulls his coat arm farther down. Never again.

“Huh,” Inspector Fuente hums, handing him another file. “Fine. Here’s everything you need to know, and the Chief Commissioner’s order. You better read it all.” He fishes up a keychain from his pocket. “An’ here’s a key to the crime scene and to this office. Knock before you enter. I want to hear your thoughts on the case this afternoon.”

“And I yours, sir.” The word tastes sour in Edge’s mouth. “This afternoon, then.”

* * *

Before he can properly discuss the case with Inspector Fuente, there are two more people Edge needs to talk with. Preferably alone, so he hopes he won’t be interrupting anything as he makes his way toward the tearoom, after asking Stretch for directions. Behind a half-open white-painted door, he finds Sir Razz and his brother sitting in a pastel green couch, in a colourful room that doesn’t at all fit into the aesthetic of the rest of the manor. Not in the slightest: its walls are pale yellow, and the furniture – from the tables to the elegant armchairs – is all in white, metallics, and pastels.

He knocks gently on the door with his knuckles, and the two look his way as Sir Razz stirs his white porcelain cup. Even from this distance, Edge can see it has roses painted on. Today, Sir Razz isn’t in a dress, but rather in a suit that appears as though it would have come straight out of a fashion advertisement.

“May I have a word, sir?” he asks as Sir Razz met his gaze, and after a moment, his current employer nods.

“Slim, leave us for a moment,” he says before waving for Edge to come in. As he and Mr Ashton pass by each other, their arms brushing against each other for a moment, Edge can feel the other study him. He calmly meets his gaze. He has no idea why the other seems to size him up like that, since he doubts he knows of his background, but it doesn’t much matter, as long as it doesn’t affect his ability to work the case. He is very used to people disliking him: he isn’t a very likeable person. It has never bothered him – the people scared off were not worth his time anyway.

Sir Razz gestures for him to sit down, and sips on his tea before showing that Edge is free to take his own. After a second of hesitance, he does. It seems rude to refuse. “My apologies that we have to serve ourselves, Detective. Stretch is busy readying my brother’s room.”

“It’s really no trouble, sir,” Edge replies, feeling oddly relieved as he takes the teapot between his hands and pours himself a cup. After smutting on the tea, hot in his hand, he shuffles in his seat before settling into a somewhat comfortable position. “I’d like to ask some questions about the case.”

“Of course.”

“Where were you at the time of the murder, sir?” He watches Sir Razz carefully to ensure he isn’t offended by the implications of the question. He really doesn’t want to get fired from this job. It’s undoubtedly the best one he’s ever had.

Sir Razz stirs his tea some more, the silver spoon tinkling against the cup, as he stares out the window thoughtfully. “In our bedroom. I was reading: I bought the latest Virginia Woolf the other day, it was published just last month. _The Waves_.”

“And when did you realize your husband was dead?” The question is blunt, but Sir Razz doesn’t as much as twitch. He meets Edge’s gaze without a hint of hesitation in his eyes.

“When Stretch told me. My husband usually worked late, so I never wondered if he didn’t come to bed until I was already asleep. So around… eleven PM, I believe, Stretch came rushing into my room, telling me that Doctor Gaster is dead. He had gone to check on him, as he always does before going to bed in the evenings and ensure my husband did not need anything beforehand. The Fontaines are something extra. None of my servants growing up were nearly as dutiful and loyal. Then again, they are so very British.”

Edge hums in acknowledgement. So Stretch had been the one to find the body. Interesting. He’ll have to talk with him about that later. “And how was your relationship with your husband, sir?” A risky question, but one that must be asked. Sir Razz raises his eyebrows.

“My husband was… something else,” he says vaguely, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “I’m not going to deny we had our hardships, and it’s possible we got married too quickly. And admittedly, he had a sharp tongue, but so does my mother and I haven’t allowed that to bother me for years. But in general, it’s been safe and predictable. Wingdings did like routines quite a lot. He, too, was quite British.”

“Why did he come to America in the first place?” Edge can’t help but ask, curious. It seems odd for a nobleman to move to the only country he knows of that doesn’t have, or cares about, aristocracy.

This time, Sir Razz chuckles, and puts down his cup as it tinkled. “After the war, and after his doctorate, he decided he was tired of people valuing him for his heritage, and wanted them to care about his intellect instead – he was incredibly intelligent. His death is a huge loss for the scientific world. So he came to the United States instead, and bought Duskshire Manor.”

What a dream. Just leaving the place judging you for your birth to go live somewhere else. It is unfortunate Edge isn’t rich as hell and therefore can’t do that. “And no one else but you and your staff of three was around at the time of the murder,” he states, just to make sure.

Sir Razz nods. “Indeed. Which means one of us is the murderer and I truly can’t imagine anyone in my staff murdering my husband. They’re all incredibly loyal and kind people.”

“Just take a guess on who could’ve done it.”

After a few moments of looking thoughtful, Sir Razz sighs and leans back in the couch. “I’d say Stretch. Don’t tell Blue I said that, though, he’d be furious. And only because he was Stretch was the one who took the worse of Wingdings’ bad moods, and likely has since long before they came here to our country. Blue refuses to tell me, says it’s private, and I suppose I must respect that. Unfortunately.”

Well, Edge is happy to hear he isn’t the type to pry into his servants’ private life, at least. Nodding, he sweeps the contents of his cup and stands. “Thank you for your time, sir. I only need to speak to Papyrus now and then I have talked with everyone here, so if you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course.” Sir Razz gestures toward the door, before catching his gaze. His expression was unyielding. “And tell me the moment you figure something out, Detective. I don’t care if you have to wake me up in the middle of the night. Except if I’m in the bath, then send Blue to fetch me.”

“As you say, sir.” With a nod, Edge leaves the room behind, thoughts swirling inside his head. There was so much to figure out here. Whoever had committed the murder had basically committed the perfect crime. Almost. Because he knows he can solve it, and he will, and so, it’s not perfect.

* * *

Down the hallway, Mr Ashton sits in a dark red couch lining the wall, resting his head against the wall. His eyes are closed and his breathing even, so Edge lightens his steps as he walks past the other. Just as he passes by him, however, his eyes fly open and he straightens. Edge twitches in surprise, but turns around to nod. “Mr Ashton.”

The other stands up with one fluent movement, and grins, his gold tooth gleaming in the light from the lamps in the ceiling. In the back of his mind, the thought that the electricity bills can’t be cheap for the manor flashes by. ”Detective Serif,” Mr Ashton greets,, gesturing along the hallway. “Allow me to accompany you.”

“Of course, sir.” Surprised, Edge continues down the hallway, his footsteps joined by Mr Ashton’s.

They make their way the entire way downstairs, the other’s presence quiet and somewhat ominous, before Mr Ashton suddenly speaks up. “Have you solved many cases, Detective?”

The question is casual, but it’s obvious what he means. _Can you be trusted?_ Edge can’t really say he doesn’t respect that. You didn’t trust just anyone if you had anything of worth in your skull. Smiling sharply at the other, Edge nods. His hands are clasped behind his back as they continue down yet another staircase, down on the ground floor. “I’d say I have, sir. Not quite anything of this calibre, but I have found missing people, and once two robbers, home in Deadford, as well as a couple minor crimes.”

Mr Ashton hums as they Edge leads them toward the entrance to the kitchen door. He holds his breath as it seems like the other is going to say something, but nothing. Well then. As much as he hates small-talk, sometimes it is necessary. “I heard you’ve been in Europe. How is the Old Continent?”

“It was a whoope,” Mr Ashton replies, smirking. _A good time_. Outside of the windows, clouds have rolled in again, painting the world grey once more. “Ever been?”

“No.” The word comes out short enough that the other raises an eyebrow, and Edge sighs as they reach the door leading to the basement. “Even before the economy crisis, I couldn’t have afforded even the ticket itself, much less the costs of living. Sir.”

“Ah, that’s a shame.”

“Indee-“ Just as he opens the door, a loud crash cuts him off, echoing through the tunnels beneath the manor. It’s immediately followed by a scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do tell me what you think! Comments, theories, anything! It makes me really happy!


	5. Chapter 5

The two of them share a gaze before rushing downstairs, Edge in the lead and Mr Ashton following close behind. Their footsteps echo through the narrow hallway as they hurry past the many doors. A thousand possible scenarios flash through his mind. Is the murderer there? Is someone hurt? _Who screamed?_ His soul pounds in his chest as he prolongs his steps, putting a longer distance between him and Mr Ashton. Their breaths are loud.

As soon as they approach the kitchen, he slows down, and Mr Ashton follows suit as he catches up with him. Holding up a hand to signal for them to move slowly, Edge steps closer to the kitchen door. It’s ajar. From the inside, he can hear shuffling feet and something else crashes, followed by loud swears. Holding his breath, he approaches.

He reaches out for the doorknob. It’s cold in his hand. He looks at Mr Ashton, who nods. He squeezes the doorknob. Inhaling sharply, he jerks it open, and it squeaks. He freezes. A gasp comes from behind him.

Cats. The kitchen is _full_ of cats. There’s at least ten of them, on the counters and in a huge bowl, and three of them are licking up the enormous puddle of milk on the ground, next to porcelain pieces that seem to have once been a huge bowl. Papyrus stands in the middle of it all, a broom in hand, and stops dead as Edge and Mr Ashton steps inside. He lets go off the broom, which clatters as it hits the ground, making one of the cats jump.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Edge exclaims, regarding the chaos. Mr Ashton is gaping as he steps up to his side, eyes wide.

“I don’t know where they came from!” Papyrus says, desperation evident in his voice. He bows down to seize the broom again, shoving away a couple of cats that had come to sniff on it. One swatted at the straws. “I went up to my room to change clothes and when I came back, they were everywhere! It’s so unhygienic!”

“Oh my God.” Mr Ashton whistles, staring at the cats. There’s an odd mix of amusement and horror on his face. “Razz is going to go through the roof if he sees this. He can’t stand cats ever since Uncle Benjamin’s Bengal gave him tetanus as a child. A terrible creature, that one. Vicious.”

That reminds Edge. Oh fuck. He must’ve not closed the door to that room full of strays properly. His breath hitches, and he swallows. Oh holy Hell. Instinctually, he seizes up as ice cold fear washes over him, and it takes a few moments to remember that the worst thing that can happen is that he gets fired. Still bad, but not _bad_. Taking a deep breath, he nods to himself. “We better get them out then. Papyrus, you don’t happen to have any unused fish lying around?”

Papyrus nods, handing him the broom before hurrying up to one of the doors. The one on the northern side. Likely the cool pantry. He slips inside, immediately closing the door behind him, and moments later he comes back out with a plate full of a pink fish. The scent immediately fills the room, and the cats perk up. “It was for lunch tomorrow, but it seems it’s getting another use.”

Without thinking, Edge shoves the broom into Mr Ashton’s hands. The richer skeleton raises an eyebrow, staring at the broom in bewilderment, and for a moment Edge wonders if he’s ever held a broom before in his life. Shoving that thought out of his mind, he takes the plate from Papyrus, throwing a piece of the cold fish on the floor. The cats immediately flock around him.

“Open the outer door,” he says, and Papyrus hurries to obey. “Come here kitties,” he then murmurs, backing toward the door and throwing yet another piece of fish for them. He can’t help but smile faintly as the grey cat from earlier strokes itself against his legs. “Dinnertime.”

As soon as the last cat has exited the kitchen, Papyrus slams the door shut. The cats hisses, jumping at the sudden noise, and many of them rushes away. When nothing else happens, however, most of them dare to come back as he puts down the plate a distance away from the house. Kneeling down by them, he scratches the grey one’s ears and it purrs loudly as it digs in on the meal. Probably the best meal it has ever had.

Eventually though, he starts shivering in the cold air. He isn’t wearing an overcoat and the air is chilly. It mustn’t be far from freezing.  Winter seems to be coming. The sky is grey as usual, and rain is drizzling down. Just enough to be noticeable. Rubbing his arms for warmth, he murmurs a goodbye to the cats, dumps the fish off the plate and returns inside.

He blinks in surprise as he steps in and sees that Mr Ashton is still there, and even helping Papyrus to move the enormous copper kettle that had been standing on top of the counter when he left. They put it down in the corner just as Edge enters, and  Mr Ashton grins, saluting jokingly. “That’s that, chef Papyrus. Now, if you both excuse me, I must return to my brother. He’ll wonder where I’ve gone.”

“Thank you for your company, sir,” Edge replies politely on the same time as Papyrus thanks him for his assistance. In the back of his mind, he notes that Papyrus seems a lot more comfortable around Mr Ashton than Stretch and Blue seemed when he arrived.

With a nod, Mr Ashton leaves and soon his footsteps die out. They are alone. Looking over the chaos, Edge sighs. “I’ll help you clean.” At Papyrus’ surprised expression, he grins crookedly. “I think I was the one to let in the cats, and I am afraid my mother raised me to clean up my messes. So you will have to stand my company, I’m afraid.”

Papyrus smiles brightly. “Oh, I’m more than happy to get it, sir. I do get a bit lonely down here, I quite miss the days when we were full-staffed. It was much more fun to work in a full kitchen, even when I wasn’t in charge back in England, and Madame Bisset – the former head cook – kept yelling at me.”

“Sounds unpleasant.” Picking up one of the rags lying in the sink, Edge starts to wipe up the milk on the counter. Papyrus chuckled.

“Oh, that’s just how most cooks are. I think. Perhaps it’s the French who are like that, not cooks. I’ve only ever been a domestic servant in the Gaster-household. Mother got me a job in the kitchen when I was seventeen. Before that I was a cobbler’s apprentice. Which was a good choice, here I am with my own kitchen in _America_. Isn’t life strange? My mother almost fainted when I told her of my promotion and that I was moving here with Doctor Gaster.”

He chatters on while they clean, and Edge listens attentively. Normally he doesn’t have much energy over for people who won’t shut up but who is he to say no to free information. He learns that Papyrus and his mother were really poor when they escaped Bulgaria, though his mother had some money his father, who he’d never met apparently, sent occasionally. Once they fled that money stopped, though, since they didn’t dare tell anyone in case the government would decide to go after refugees. She’d quickly found a job as a housemaid, since Britain was in something of a domestic servant crisis since the war began. Any woman who wanted a job as a maid would get it.

She’d apparently befriended someone who worked in the Gasters’ household and used that to get Papyrus into their service. Male domestic servants were a luxury these days, he learns, and so it gave him good chances for the future now when he was in a household that could afford them.

Eventually, he must interrupt the other, though. “Mind if I ask a few questions?” he says as he brushes up cat hair from beneath one of the counters. “For my case?” He’d ask them anyway, of course, but politeness wouldn’t hurt.

“Oh!” Papyrus shakes his head, putting down the bowl he’d been washing. “Of course not. I’m happy to help!”

“Perfect.” Edge smiles at him, though it may look more like a smirk. He washes his hands before going to retrieve his notebook in the suit jacket he’d hung by the door. He quite prefers not to get it dirty. Flipping open the next empty page, he goes over to Papyrus and leans against the wall. “Did you have any relation with the dead whatsoever?”

Papyrus looks thoughtful. “Well, I suppose I did. He wasn’t the one to employ me, obviously – Madame Bisset did. But once he came back from the war – I was employed a year before – I did meet him a couple times running errands around the house, and of course as the head cook I now have had discussions about menus and such with him. Other than that, I can’t say we did interact a lot. Doctor Gaster is truly an Englishman and didn’t believe in having relationships with your staff. Perhaps you Americans do it different, but ho- in England, that’s just how it is.”

Edge nods. He has no idea how relationships between servants and masters worked here either, since he had grown up in the Industrial parts of the city. He can, however, describe the relationships between workers and foremen _far_ too well. His pen scratches against the paper. “I have understood you do not think the Doctor was a good person. Can you elaborate?”

“Well.” Papyrus grins awkwardly, obviously uncomfortable. “When your first impression of someone is an adult yelling at a child – Doctor Gaster was twenty, and Stretch a mere fourteen – and telling them, in front of their entire family, how they can’t do anything right, you’re bound to not think too fondly of said person. I believe Stretch had been doing too much on the same time and dropped two of the doctor’s old books into a bucket of ash, so it wasn’t even anything that I would consider a serious offence. So no, I’ve never liked him. But it wasn’t anything personal, just… he wasn’t a nice man. But neither is most of the nobility when it comes to their staff, I have come to find. I am sure they could learn better, if they just were shown how!” He pauses, smile turning even more awkward. “Well, not the Doctor, but you get my point, sir.”

“Edge,” Edge says, and the other forms an _O_ with his mouth. “Call me Edge. Anyhow, where were you at the time of the murder?”

“Gladly!” Papyrus beams at him as he starts washing a porcelain bowl. “I was in bed. It was late, and I go up early in the morning, you see. I have to be in the kitchen at five AM so I have time to bake bread for breakfast and, though I don’t have to anymore, prepare lunch for Doctor Gaster to bring to the university. Especially now when he and Sir Razz were saving money by not going out to restaurants more than once a month anymore. So I go to sleep at ten when I can.”

“Can anyone confirm?”

“Well, I didn’t have anyone in my bedroom, obviously, but both Stretch and Blue can tell you that’s when I usually go to bed, and that I wasn’t in the kitchen. Stretch can tell you that: the wine is down here and he had gone to get a bottle for the doctor before he found him.

Edge startles, staring at him. The pen falls out of his hand, clattering at it hits the floor. “Wait,” he says, voice full of disbelief, “Stretch was delivering _wine_ for him?”

Blinking, Papyrus nods. “Oh, yes. No one has told you?”

“No,” he mutters, chewing on his pen. “They haven’t.” Taking a deep breath, he nods once. “Alright, I have one last question for you: what would you say the others’ motives would be, if they were guilty? For Sir Razz, Stretch, and Blue.”

Frowning, Papyrus thinks for a moment. His answers are nearly identical to everyone else’s.

* * *

Once the kitchen is cleaned up, Edge hurries upstairs. He absolutely needs to talk with Stretch right now. Well, as soon as he’s had the chance to change his clothing. But before he can get much farther than the first staircase, Inspector Fuente comes around the corner, He smirks when he sees Edge in his dishevelled state: there’s cat hair on his shirt, his sleeves are still damp, and he has his jacket thrown over his shoulder. Edge meets his gaze right on. He refuses to be shamed for being a decent monster being.

“Detective,” the inspector says, obviously amused. He looks him over. “I’d like to discuss the case now. I have already spoken with Sir Razz about having a light dinner while we do so, so we won’t be missed, nor miss dinner.”

Damn it. Edge had completely forgotten. Nodding stiffly, he jerks his head toward the next staircase. “Very well, sir. I just need to get changed first.”

“I can see that.” Inspector Fuente sniggers as he turns his back to Edge, throwing an eye over his shoulder. “I’m expecting you in the office in ten minutes, Detective.”

Holding in a growl at being ordered around, Edge nods again. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. I’m lookin’ forward to hearing yer theories.”

* * *

Once he’s changed into his other everyday suit, he makes his way toward the office. He needs to get the other suit washed, it’s never good to not have a backup in case things get messy. Especially here where everyone is perfectly dressed. On his way, he looks out the window and smiles fondly as he sees three cats rush through the garden. Perhaps he should try to see where they get in, it might help the case. But in the back of his mind he kind of doesn’t want to, because then they might have to stay outside now when the cold winter is coming.

Nonetheless, he has a job to do, and it ought to be more important than the cats. It is both a murder and what keeps him off the streets himself, after all. He has very little wish to join the crowds of people living in cardboard boxes in the park. He stops in his tracks for a moment before continuing. He has no idea what he’s getting paid for this job, he realizes. All he has been told is that they ‘pay well’, which really could mean anything. Especially since he’s getting free food and houseroom out of it. He will have to ask later.

Soon he reaches the office. He breathes in deeply before knocking. Hopefully the other would drop his superior attitude soon. The sound of his knocks echo through the otherwise empty hallway, and soon he hears the shuffling of footsteps inside. The doors open, but just slightly, and he’s met by Inspector Fuente’s grin in the gap. When the other realizes its him, he opens the door entirely and gestures for him to come inside.

“Sit down,” he says, gesturing toward one of the armchairs by the wall. Edge slides into it, and the cushion is hard. The inspector takes out a file, and Edge eyes widens as he realizes he hasn’t had time to read the one he was given. Dammit. He’ll have to do that tonight, for sure. Then the inspector sits down in the other. There’s a table between them as well as two whiskey glasses and an unmarked bottle, and Inspector Fuente gives him a meaning gaze before he pours the golden liquid into the glasses. Edge smirks as he takes the glass and tastes it. Bourbon. Perhaps Inspector Fuente isn’t quite as awful as he seemed, if he was willing to break the law over some good whiskey. “What have you found, Detective?”

“I assume you’re going to share your thoughts as well, sir?” Edge asks, raising an eyebrow, and as he receives a nod he nods back, swirling the whiskey around in the glass. “Well. Doctor Gaster wasn’t exactly the most pleasant person, from what I’ve gathered. Some might say he deserved what he got. _Some_ , not only meaning the murderer. Of course, Sir Razz hired me, which does make it seem like he wishes for the case to be solved quickly and properly. Had I been a murderer, I wouldn’t want more investigators than necessary on the case.” He gives Inspector Fuente his thoughts on what he’d been told, and what the others had assumed everyone else’s motives could be. The inspector watches him the whole time, even as he goes through two glasses of whiskey.

As he comes to the end of it, Edge hesitates. “And- I haven’t had time to talk with the youngest Mr Fontaine about it yet, but according to Mr Safont, he was delivering Doctor Gaster _wine_ as he found the dead body.”

Inspector Fuente twitches, putting down his glass forcefully. The liquid spills over the edge, down on the table. “Oh?”

In that very moment, it knocks on the door. They exchange a gaze before Inspector Fuente stands up, walking up to the door. He opens it slowly, revealing Stretch standing there, a tray with food in his arms. “Your dinner, sirs…” He trails off, regarding them hesitantly. “Is… everything to your liking, Inspector? Detective Serif?”

“Come in,” Inspector Fuente says, stepping aside. He’s staring at the other, eyes narrow. “We have some questions we’d like to ask you, Mr Fontaine.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do check out the added tags if you're sensitive or have any triggers!

Worry shines in Stretch’s eyes as he steps inside, placing the tray on one of the chests of drawers by the wall. Inspector Fuente keeps his eyes on him the entire time, and so does Edge. Trying to read any traces of guilt on the face of someone he’s nearly began considering a friend. He doesn’t want Stretch to be guilty, but what he wants doesn’t matter. Fate, or God, or the universe, doesn’t care. It’s with heavy soul he gestures for the other to take the office chair and pull it up so he can sit, facing them.

Stretch’s hands rests in his lap as he sits. It would’ve been the perfect picture of propriety, hadn’t he been fiddling. His shoulders are hunched the tiniest bit, but he meets their gazes straight on.

“Mr Fontaine,” the inspector says, grinning humourlessly. “Detective Serif has found that you delivered wine to the deceased the night he died. And I have gotten the autopsy back. He died by cyanide poisoning. Cyanide that had been mixed into _wine_. What do you have to say about this?”

“Nothing.” Stretch’s voice is tight. When Edge narrows his eyes, his expression becomes strained. He straightened and sighed. “I really don’t know how that happened. I did what I did every night: bring a glass of wine to the music room. Doctor Gaster always spent an hour or two there before going to bed, playing piano. Apparently his genius was stimulated by fine wine and music. I left, made myself ready for bed. Then I came back, just to check if he needed anything before I went to sleep, and I found him on the floor, whimpering. He went silent and limp within seconds.”

“Who else had access to the wine?”

“Everyone in the staff.”

 “Why didn’t you tell me?” Edge rolls his pen between his fingers, trying to keep his calm. He has no right at all  to feel upset. Betrayed. Stretch owes him nothing, and they have known each other for absolutely no time at all. That he is pleasant company doesn’t mean anything.

It takes a few moments before Stretch answers. He closes his eyes and exhales. “Blue told me not to. Didn’t want any unnecessary suspicion on me. Or us.”

“Well, Mr Fontaine.” Inspector Fuente stands, taking a step forward until he’s almost in Stretch’s face. “That backfired badly, because you’re now our main suspect and I will need to search your rooms. And your brother’s too, in case he was involved as well. I can also charge him with obstruction of justice.”

Stretch visibly pales. Before Edge can do as much as react, he’s halfway out of his chair. “No, don’t-” He seems to catch himself and sinks back. “Blue’s only trying to protect me, as always. Don’t get my brother in trouble, please.” His expression is almost pathetically pleading. “Search our rooms, search the entire manor if you wish. But Blue’s only doing what he can to help me. Please.”

Inspector Fuente hums. He stares at Stretch for a few, long seconds before nodding and sinking back into the armchair. “Very well. He’ll walk free this time. But if any of you try to hide anything from me again, you _will_ need an attorney.”

The relief on Stretch’s face is evident. He nods quickly. “Thank you, sir.”

“You may leave, Mr Fontaine.” Inspector Fuente waves toward the door. “But let your brother know what happened in here now, that you’re both our main suspects, and that we _will_ be searching your rooms.”

“Of course, sir,” Stretch mumbles as he rises, half-bowing quickly before he exits. Edge stares after him, clenching his fists in his lap. It is stupid, how he has to resist the urge to rise and rush after him. They hardly know each other. And Stretch is suspected for _murder_.

In the back of his mind, Edge knows he can’t blame him if he did it. He knows he would’ve done it to the foreman if he ever had gotten the chance.  He still isn’t sure what he’d do if he ever sees the man again. Exhaling, he schools his face into gruff neutrality before he turns to the inspector. Inspector Fuente watches him with an eyebrow raised.

“What?”

“You seem fond of the butler, Detective.”

Edge glares at him. “I don’t see how that is any of your business, sir. I can relate to having an abusive employer, that is all.”

“Oh?”

“None of your damn business.”

The inspector grins, clasping his hands behind his neck. There’s _almost_ something kind in his eyes, but not quite. Edge wonders if he’s capable of that. Probably not, members of the Police force seem incapable of showing compassion to anyone ‘below them’. He learnt that early. “It isn’t.” He leans forward, grin falling. “You do look like you’d like to talk about it though. Have you ever? I can swear by God Himself, or by my own honour if you’d prefer that, to keep silent about it. I already know some details, through my research. Your mother and your boss, eh?”

For a few seconds, Edge only stares tat him. How the fuck did he know that? Nevertheless, he was right. Edge hadn’t talked about it, even once. It wasn’t anyone’s business but his own.

No one had never asked before.

He is an idiot. A _lonely_ fucking idiot.

“Fine. Swear. On both of them.”

Drawing a cross over his chest, the inspector swears.

“It’s a simple thing,” he says. “As the unwed mother of a bastard my mother had few choices. I got badly injured at work when I was fourteen, and the foreman, who had been trying to get her in bed for months, offered to pay for the medical care if she would sleep with him. And then she was in that trap. If she refused him, he could easily have us out on the streets. He started coming and going in our home as he wanted, got himself a key. And he was a violent, cruel man, and as much as he lusted after my mother, as much he disliked me because I refused to bend. I couldn’t. And now I couldn’t even escape him in my own home. Then she died, and I was on my own.”

“Shit.” Inspector Fuente stares at him, his eyelight flickering in shock.

“What’s your sob story then, Inspector?”

“Heh.” The corners of his mouth tilt upwards. “Afraid I ain’t got one. My mother’s a sweet lady from a good family and my father’s a preacher, an’ th’ kindest person I’ve ever met. They’re both disappointed I ain’t got much faith, but nothing that damages any familiar bonds, here. Most of our property survived the crash, even.”

“Hm. Lucky.” Shaking his head, he turns toward the wall with the pictures and texts. “Your thoughts?”

Luckily Inspector Fuente doesn’t comment on his obvious change of subject.

* * *

To be honest, the inspector doesn’t know much Edge hasn’t’ figured out himself. The background checks were more thorough, and he has a time of death that matches up with what Stretch had told them, but otherwise he didn’t give Edge anything else to work with. Soon enough they part, each going their own ways. Edge wanders through the hallways of the manor, searching for _someone_ , when he hears quiet talking from behind the corner. Stopping dead, he considers whether he should leave or not as he hears his own name mentioned. His eyes widen. With a few careful steps, he goes up to the corner, leaning against the wall so he can listen.

“-to hide,” he hears. Blue. That is Blue’s voice, gentle and patient. “There is nothing to worry about, brother, because neither of us have done anything.”

A loud exhale. “I know, Blue. I know. But. They really seem to think it was me. I don’t- Blue, I didn’t kill Doctor Gaster, you know that.” Stretch’s voice shakes as he speaks with his brother. Edge closes his eyes, resisting the urge to walk around the corner and confront them. “I wouldn’t-”

“I know,” Blue assures him. “I know. And soon they will know too. They can’t prove something that didn’t happen.”

“True.” Stretch sighs loudly, his voice still trembling somewhat. “You should go back to work, Blue. Sir Razz will wonder where you are.”

“Will you be okay?”

“Aren’t I always?”

They say something else, quieter, something Edge can’t hear, before footsteps is heard. Edge freezes, but they disappear the other way and he relaxes again. He waits a couple minutes, but when Stretch doesn’t move either, he steps around the corner. The other stiffens when he sees him. He’s sitting curled up in the beige, old-fashioned couch standing along the wall, but immediately throws his legs off it and straightens.

“Dete-” he begins, his smile obviously straining on his face, and his hands balls together in his lap.

“Edge,” Edge interrupts him, sitting down next to him. Stretch twitches. Or perhaps it’s a flinch. It’s hard to tell. “I don’t think you did it.”

“Wha-”

“And honestly. I can’t blame you even _if_ you did. The amount of times I wanted to kill my foreman…”

Stretch stares at him, mouth open, Edge’s expression is fully serious as he regards him before looking down on his own hands. There’s a perfectly straight crack running over his fingers. Straight as a ruler. He closes his eyes for a few moments, and when he opens them again, Stretch is still staring mutely at him, shock shining in his eyes. The corner of his mouth curls upward in a bitter smile. “Do you want to hear a sad story?”

Slowly, the other nods. He looks thoughtful as he regards Edge. And Edge has no idea why he’s doing this, but he is, and he doesn’t want to stop. Two times in a day, huh?

“Growing up in the slums isn’t easy, especially when you’re a bastard, and your mother isn’t married. She was a beautiful, kind-hearted woman, she could have done well, hadn’t she had me.” He’s been battling the guilt ever since he was old enough to realize that hadn’t he been born, his mother’s life would have been better. Even though she always had told him that it wasn’t true. “And when I got injured at fourteen, at the steel mill I worked, she was desperate to pay for the doctors. I was dying. My arm was crushed and the infections… Even with medical assistance, my chances for survival was slim, and she couldn’t afford it. So she made a deal with my foreman, who was lusting after her. I would say in love, except there was _nothing_ loving about that man. She sold her body to him so he’d pay, and then there was no end to it. Even though I healed, he came back. And I’d spend nights lying on the kitchen couch where I slept, and I’d hear them. Hear her whimpering as she was raped. And he hated me. I’ve always been stubborn, and now he seemed to believe that because he was fucking my mother he could do anything to me. I-”

He swallows. Glancing around, he ensures no one is there. Stretch watches him, wide-eyed, as he takes off his coat and pulls up the back of his shirt. A horrified gasp escapes him. Edge knows he doesn’t have to explain, it’s obvious what happened from the criss-cross patterns across his back. Bone doesn’t heal as well as skin does. “Leather belt,” is all he says. He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Not the worst he did, but probably all you want to hear. Then he infected Mother with syphilis – I usually say the flu, but it wasn’t – and within half a year, I was alone. I was seventeen. He’s probably dead now too, that whore, but if I ever saw him, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Correcting his clothes again, he finally meets Stretch’s eyes. “Point is, I do know how it is to be abused by an employer you can’t escape even at home.”

“I’m so sorry,” Stretch whispers, compassion shining in his eyes. His hands rests over his mouth, horror evident in his expression.

“It’s fine. Was years ago.”

“No it’s not. You shouldn’t have had to-” Edge’s eyes widen as he realizes there’s tears in Stretch’s eyes, and the other smiles awkwardly as he wipes them away. “It’s just unfair, you know. That-”

He doesn’t seem capable of continuing, but Edge nods. “I know. It is.”

 _Unfair that they have to suffer. Unfair that the powerful are cruel. Unfair that the world doesn’t care for people like them_.

The great clock on the wall rings. and Stretch twitches, glancing up at it. “I have to go. Sir Razz will be waiting for his tea.”

Edge nods. “Go.”

As Stretch disappears around the corner, he stands as well. He has a job to do.

* * *

He can hear the ringing of the church bell from over the meadows as he makes his way toward the library once more. It’s where he was pointed, so it’s where he goes. Stepping in there is much like stepping into another world. The room is dimly lit except for the reading lamp standing away by one of the armchairs, and the scent of dust and books is almost overwhelming.

In the armchair with the reading lamp lit, Sir Razz sits, a book in his hands. The new master of the house lowers the book as he hears Edge’s footsteps and nods in greeting. He gestures for him to sit down, and Edge takes place in the dark blue armchair next to him. All the armchairs in the room are old, that much is obvious from the design, though he has no idea _how_ old.

Sir Razz’s smile is polite as he gestures toward the teapot standing on the table next to him, but Edge denies it politely. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes.” Putting away his book, Sir Razz nods. He clasps his hands in his lap. “I’d like to hear how the case is going. Inspector Fuente does not need to tell me anything as he works for the state, but as you are under _my_ employment, I believe I can ask you this?”

“Yes,” Edge confirms. He can. He considers for a moment what to say: technically, Sir Razz is still a suspect, although he’s certainly the one who seems the least guilty right now. “Our main suspect is Stretch, though I personally am not convinced. Inspector Fuente is awaiting some constables to come help search his and Blue’s rooms at this very moment. If nothing is found, then it is only to keep investigating: everyone has a motive, though Stretch and Blue has the most obvious ones, which is to be expected as they knew Doctor Gaster the longest.”

“I see.” Drumming his fingers against his skirt-covered leg, Sir Razz looked thoughtful. “Well, I quite doubt it was either of them. Blue is the most loyal individual I have ever met, and Stretch does not seem like he’d be capable of murder. He cannot even bring himself to hurt those _abhorrent_  cats.”

Edge nods. To be perfectly honest, he agrees. Nonetheless, _someone_ in this house is a murderer, and he hasn’t the faintest idea who it actually is. Stretch and Blue sure do have motives,  but they don’t seem like the murder-y type. But then again, who knows? Anyone can be a murderer. One of the sweetest girls in his old class had been arrested for the murder of her husband only last year, it had caused quite the stir. She’d been driven to the edge by him threatening to kill their children if she wouldn’t obey. So she had killed him.

Desperation could bring people to do horrible things.

Though, to be perfectly honest, Edge isn’t certain if he would call the murder of an abuser, a would-be-murderer, and likely rapist _horrible_. Sounds like he’d deserved everything he got. If there is such a thing as Heaven and Hell, he better burn.

Both of them twitch as it knocks on the door. A young human man sticks in his head through the doorway, nodding in greeting. “Are you Sir Razz and Detective Serif?”

“Indeed we are,” Sir Razz confirms, standing up. “And you are?”

“Constable Johnson, sir. We are conducting the search and the inspector sent me to invite the detective.”

“Thank you.” Edge stands as well. Sir Razz follows him as he marched out of the room and followed the constable as he navigates through the manor’s countless hallways. At one point Sir Razz has to tell him he was taking the wrong way. It is a labyrinth. The rooms are on the ground plane. Not in the basement as he had expected, but in the back of the manor.

Stretch and Blue are standing outside of an open door, close together as they watched. Stretch hugs himself as he watches the Policemen poke around his room. Papyrus is there as well, watching the search attentively. Edge can’t help but wonder what he is doing there. Then again, surely it was a curious thing to see. Inspector Fuente stands just inside the room, leaning against the open door with his arms crossed. His suit jacket is unbuttoned, and his hat tilted on his head. He grins as the two of them show up.

“Come to see yer first proper investigation, Detective?” he asks, eyes glittering. When Edge only stares at him, he shrugs. “Come and take a look at what my constables find. Sir Razz,” he adds, tipping his hat.

“Inspector,” Sir Razz replies, sounding amused. He casts a short, concerned glance at his servants before smiling at Inspector Fuente and looking into the room. “Finding anything?”

“Not ye-”

“Inspector!” one of the constables calls out. Inspector Fuente immediately twists around, just in time to see a uniformed man step out of the wardrobe. He’s holding a box. “There’s hydrangea flowers in here, and a bottle with white powder. It’s literally marked _Cyanide_.”

Edge stiffens. Sir Razz stops dead behind him. And Inspector Fuente twists around again, staring straight at the butler, who is wide-eyed and gaping. “But-” Stretch begins, but doesn’t have time to get out anything else before the inspector steps up to him. His expression is serious as he grabs Stretch’s arms, twisting them behind his back. Stretch lets out a small noise but doesn’t fight as the handcuffs click into place.

When Edge meets his gaze for a moment, panic shines in them as the inspector proclaims him under arrest. Blue’s hands are slapped over his mouth but when the word _arrest_ is uttered, he lets out a small shriek. “ _No_! No my brother isn’t a murderer Inspector this isn’t-”

Sir Razz gently puts his hand on his arm, silencing him. He leans forward and says something that Edge can’t catch, but tears spring up into Blue’s eyes as he steps out of the way. Edge’s eyes flicker back up to Stretch’s face. Fear and confusion is written all over it.

The inspector leads him out of the room, past Papyrus who is silently watching everything unfold. Edge startles when he sees the cook’s face. His expression is compassionate, and he’s watching the events unfold with remorse on his face.

But there’s a faint glimmer of triumph in his eye.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than usual, but here we go!

Ignoring Blue’s horror-stricken face, Sir Razz’s shock, and his own unease, Edge leaves the room. At first, he’s just following Inspector Fuente and Rus, but soon he finds himself lagging after, There manor is full of police officers, and they make him uneasy. Despite his valid reasons to be here, and the fact that he looks like a professional in these suits, he can’t shake off the feeling that he’s going to have a gun pointed at him at any time. That someone will demand to know what a gutter rat like him is doing in a place like this. In the end, he leaves for his room.

Everything left can be handled by the inspector – it _should_ , he’s a law professional while Edge and the law does not normally get along despite his best attempts. He’ll probably be sent home in no time, or he’ll have to leave himself. After all, he has things to take care of at home. Like that cat on the street he feeds, working on getting her to come inside. A white beauty, scarred after a life alone. The poor thing was just starting to trust him as he left for the manor. Hopefully being here hasn’t burned any bridges there.

Nonetheless, there’s something that doesn’t feel right. Something he can’t place coils in his stomach, settling in the back of his mind. This was too easy. While Stretch had the motive, Edge can’t quite see him doing this. Especially not while leaving the evidence so easy to find. What kind of murderer would leave the murder weapon _labelled_ in their fucking _wardrobe_? That was one of the first places an investigator would check. Either he is stupid, which he doubted, or he didn’t do it. He stiffened.

And if he didn’t do it, that meant someone had _framed him_.

But who would do such a thing? Sitting down on his bed, the mattress sinking below him, Edge stares out the window, at the grey sky. His eyes widened as he realizes something and stands up once again, hurrying toward the window. It’s drizzling down over the backyard out there, but he doesn’t care as he opens the window, the cold wind hitting him. Leaning out as far as he can, looks down. Just beneath his window was an enclosed garden, full of flowers that had browned and wilted for the winter.

Twisting around, he leaves his room, though not before locking it behind him. He doesn’t want anyone in there. Especially not in a house where there might be a murderer on the loose. He ignores the policemen he hurries past, and they ignore him, so that works out fine. His footsteps echo through the hallways before he grabs his coat in the entrance hall wardrobe and steps outside.

The wind is stronger on the front of the house than behind, tearing at Edge’s coat and making him shiver. The chilly air bites his bare phalanges as he makes his way around the building. The cloud cover above rolls over the sky, turning greyer with every moment. His teeth chatter. Maybe snow was coming.

Throwing a glance toward the servants’ entrance, which came into view, he hurries over the grass. The garden was locked, but when he kneels in front of the padlock, a bush hides him from view from the house. Taking a deep breath, he fishes out his lock-picking kit from the inner pocket of his inside coat. It was a habit he’d picked up in childhood, to never go anywhere without one. Edge closes one eye as he focused on the padlock. He holds his breath as he moves the lockpick around. An older kid in school had taught him this when he was eleven, only two months before she left school to go work in the laundry instead. She’d taught herself, he remembered her telling him, because her parents would lock her into a wardrobe as punishment and she got bored of sitting in there for hours.

He grins as the lock clicks open. Pulling it out, he slides the door open and steps inside. The enclosed garden is full of flowers and trees, but it’s one in particular he’s there for. Now as winter is approaching, the bush is brown and ugly, but he easily recognizes it. Cherry laurel.

The plant is stocked _full_ of cyanide, and if one could extract it, or make someone ingest a larger amount, it would be _more than enough_ to kill someone. Suddenly, Edge is very grateful he picked up a book on medicinal plants in the library one day when he was extremely bored. _And_ it would be easily accessible for anyone in the manor who knows a thing about plants. Of course, it does in no way prove Stretch’s innocence – he, too, could easily have gotten in here. But it is certainly useful to know what the probable murder weapon is.

And- He glances toward the entrance to the servant wing. It might give him some leverage, should he need it. Picking a few leaves, he stuffs them into his pockets and returns inside to his room. Shoving his suitcase up on the bed, he unlocks it. The lock clicks open. Edge reaches under the lining over the case, smiling grimly as his hand closes around cool metal. After checking over the small gun, he stuffs it into his pocket. If he’s right, it’s not unlikely he’s going to need it.

Most of the policemen have disappeared from the manor house as he makes his way downstairs. As he reaches halfway down the first staircase, he stops dead. It turns around, so he couldn’t see the bottom from the top, but now he does. At the last few steps, Sir Razz and Blue sits, Sir Razz’s arms around a shaking Blue. The right-hand man has his face buried in Sir Razz’s blouse, and the noble strokes his back, hushing him. For a moment, Edge wonders if he should turn back.

“Come on down, Detective,” Sir Razz says without looking up. “I can hear you.”

Edge does, just in time to see Blue’s trembling hands wipe his eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. He tries to smile at him, but it falls, more tears filling his eyes. Edge’s soul aches. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and Blue ducks his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I’m-” A sob interrupts him. He shakes his head. “I’m so- so sorry, sir, for- for my inappropriate be- behaviour.” His body shakes as he attempts to look at Edge before breaking down sobbing, hiding his face in his handkerchief.

Sir Razz hushes him, pulling him into a tight hug. “Don’t be stupid, Blue. No one is expecting you to act any different than this after your brother just got arrested for murder.”

At that, the sobs only get more violent, almost nearing the pitch of a shriek. Edge winces.

“My- my brother- brother isn’t a- Razz, he _isn’t a murderer_. He- he _wouldn’t_.”

“The evidence is pretty overwhelming,” Sir Razz murmurs. “But I’ll hire him a lawyer, don’t worry. A good one. He’ll have a fair trial.”

“I- We can’t-” Blue begins before shaking his head. Tears slide down his cheeks. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Nodding, Razz turns to Edge. “I assume you’re leaving soon?”

An obvious dismissal – his time in the manor was over. Edge nods. “I am. I just want to tie up some loose threads, and it should be done in no time.”

“I’ll have your payment ready.”

Sir Razz turns back to the distraught Blue, and Edge carefully navigates around them. Not that it’s particularly hard in this enormous staircase. Before he steps down, he stops. “Do you know where Papyrus is, sir?”

Blinking, Sir Razz shrugs. “Ought to be in the kitchen at this time of day. How come?”

“He has been most kind. I feel as though it’s only appropriate to bid him farewell personally.”

That seems an acceptable answer, because Sir Razz turns all his attention back to his sobbing servant again, reaching into a pocket to hand him another handkerchief. Since when skirts have pockets, Edge doesn’t know, but maybe he got them specifically tailored that way.

Giving them one last nod in goodbye, he leaves down the other flight of stairs. No one is around, so he doesn’t bother pretending that he’s going toward the basement before going back the same way as he’d left only a while ago. Into the servants’ quarters. He’s not certain which room is Papyrus’, but it should logically be somewhere close to Stretch’s.

There’s still a Police officer in Stretch’s room when he enters the that hallway, searching the room for more evidence. It’s in chaos, things thrown everywhere. He winces as he sees it. Living spaces should be neat and tidy, and even though Stretch may be a murderer there is no reason to do that to his bedroom. The officer pays him little attention, and he can walk past quick, searching for the right room. Opening door after door, he finds many empty ones. The rooms of staff who were fired, Edge assumes. Turning around a corner, he feels on yet another handle. It stops. The room is locked. _Bingo_. Hopefully, at least.

After glancing around the corner to check no one’s coming, he kneels down in front of the door. Common locks are slightly more difficult than padlocks, but it doesn’t take long before he has unlocked the door. His grin widens as he opens it. The room inside is fairly simple, with yellow-painted walls and a tall but narrow bed in the corner, and a dresser at the other side of the room. There’s also a writing desk and a bookcase, which holds quite a few recipe books, as well as a tiled stove and an armchair, both in a corner.

It must be Papyrus’ room. Carefully closing the door behind him, Edge makes his way in, keeping his lockpick easy to reach. There _is_ something odd with how Papyrus had a look of glee in his eyes as Stretch was arrested. He doesn’t trust it. The cook had seemed a kind person, but what _kind person_ would be that happy during such an occasion? Especially when Blue had been falling apart.

Locking the door after himself, he takes a look around. Where to begin? His eyes fall on the writing desk and its closed drawers. That seems like the most logical place. He pulls at once of them. Locked. But it doesn’t take much effort to get them open, though impressively, more than it took for the door. There’s nothing of interest in the first one: a couple fountain pens and a few notes on recipes.

In the second, however, there’s a huge pile of envelopes, all addressed to _Papyrus Safont_. Carefully pulling out the first letter, he unfolds it. Edge swears. _скъпи николай_ , it reads. Yeah, he does not understand a word of what he assumes is Bulgarian. Or a single _letter_ , for that part. Fucking hell, why can’t everyone just use the English alphabet? It would’ve made his job so much easier. He sticks it back in and takes out another, holding his breath as he hopes they’re not all in Bulgarian. The second one begins the same way. And the third.

When he opens the fourth letter, however, he lets out a grunt in triumph. _English_. A fucking miracle.

 _Aren’t you coming home soon?_ it reads. No greeting. Just straight into business. _Mum and dad worry, Nikolay. And so do I. I’ve found a job as a secretary. Not as fancy as my old job, but it’s better than anything I’ve had the last years. You don’t have to stay in America. Come home. I’m not angry anymore, it’s too exhausting. Just forget it. You missed grandfather’s funeral because you went away with Gaster._

Edge frowns. The letter isn’t signed, But… this doesn’t sound right. Papyrus didn’t have a father, did he? Not according to Inspector Fuente. Nor did he supposedly have any other family outside of a mother, whom he’d fled Bulgaria with. This was… odd. He takes a quick look through the rest of the letters, but there’s nothing else. They’re all either in Bulgarian or vaguely worded, almost as though the writer is worried they’ll get intercepted.

Also, _Nikolay_. That wasn’t English. Might be some kind of nickname, of course, or… Scrunching up his face, he puts back the letters, opening the other drawers. Nothing of interest in any of them. He walks over to the bookcase, drawing a hand over the titles. Mostly cooking books, a fictional ones such as _Robinson Crusoe_ and _The Emerald City of Oz_ , and… _King’s American Dispensatory_. A book that made sense to have when you had an herb garden to care for, but it also logically _had_ to have information about poisonous plants.

Nothing of what he’d found yet was evidence, though. Weird, yes, but there were many reasons as though why Papyrus may be lying about his family, and it wasn’t necessarily murderous ones. There is a table next to the bed. As Edge steps over there, the floorboards are quiet, except one of them, which creaks oddly loud. He freezes. When he takes a step backwards, pressing down on it again, it sags beneath his shoe. _Hm_.

Edge sinks to his knees, knocking a hand against it. The sound is echo-y. Then he does the same to the floorboards around, but those sounds are dull.

“There’s empty space beneath,” he murmurs to himself, fishing out his lockpicking kit again. One of the lockpicks is flat, and with some force, he manages to shove it in between the floorboards. The floorboard in question moves as he rocks it. Can it be…? He lets out a huff of triumph as he manages to dislodge it enough to move it, and his eyes widen.

The secret compartment is bigger than he expected. And full of stuff. As he reaches down, he fishes up a bunch of papers. His breath hitches as he sees what lies beneath them. A vial rack, with multiple vials holding white powder. Edge snatches one of them, shoving it into his pocket. _This_ was evidence.

 _Jackpot_.

Slowly, he unfolds one of the letters. On the top of the paper, the _family shield of the royal family sits_ , together with the address 10 Downing Street. His thoughts and soul race. What the _fuck_ is going on here? Why does Papyrus have a letter from the headquarter of Britain’s government? It’s signed by ‘ _The Prime Minister, David Lloyd George’_ , in September 1918.

Gaping, Edge reads the letter. A letter of discharge, for one Samuil Todorov, from MI6 on charges of suspected treason. Edge hasn’t even known for sure MI6 _exists_ or if it is mere rumours. He gasps.

_‘As pointed out by your colleague, Agent Gaster, you are of Bulgarian descent, Agent Todorov, and as you are aware, Bulgaria is an enemy of Britain in the War. We cannot take this risk, as Agent Gaster also pointed out.’_

_Holy Heaven and Hell_.

The floor creaks behind him. Edge’s soul jumps into his throat as he twists around. Above him, Papyrus stands. The cook grins humourlessly before he swings the fire poker he’s holding. White-hot pain flashes through his head before everything turns black, and he sinks to the floor, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up, hmm?


	8. Chapter 8

His head aches as he slowly regains consciousness, blinking against the blinding light. As he tries to lean forward, he finds he can’t. He jerks at his hands, finding he can’t move them either. There’s something keeping them stuck to the arms of the chair he’s in. What _happened...?_

Images. They flash before his eyes. A bedroom, letters with the British royal crest, _Papyrus with a fire poker_. He’d been knocked unconscious. Edge twitches as it all comes back to him and he throws his eyes open, even as his head throbs at the sudden assault of light. He’s still in the bedroom. By the writing desk, Papyrus stands, stirring a cup of tea as he watches him. How _could he have been so stupid?_ How could he have allowed himself to get so distracted that he didn’t notice Papyrus coming into the room? His eyes catch on the gun lying next to Papyrus on the desk. _His_ gun.

“You’re awake,” Papyrus notes. “Good.” The spoon chinks as it hits the walls of the porcelain cup, painted with roses. The cook smiles, almost apologetically. “I am terribly sorry I had to tie you up, but you really shouldn’t have come and ferreted around my room. It’s terribly rude.”

Edge tries to speak, but as he does, only muffled noises comes out. His eyes widen. In his stupor, he hadn’t realized he had a cloth stuffed into his mouth. When he glares at the other, Papyrus only tsks. “Don’t look so mad. I can’t have you yelling, you surely must understand that? I’ve reached my goal – getting revenge on the _bastard_ who destroyed my brother’s – my entire family’s – life for many years because of something as stupid as _racism_. You Americans should know something about that, shouldn’t you? But it works somewhat differently home in Europe.” Disgust covers his face as he sips his tea. “I’ve lived my entire life in Wales. I was born there, and so was my brother. And our parents. But because our grandfather came from Bulgaria, from _Eastern Europe_ , apparently we cannot be trusted. Lazy, they call us. Thieves. Not that you’re different here. Had I attempted to enter with my own name, I am certain I would’ve met a lot more resistance.”

There’s so much bitterness in his voice. Edge stares at him, and Papyrus stares back. “What do you say? Do you think they would’ve been as happy to let in Nikolay Todorov as they were to let in Papyrus Safont, Doctor Gaster’s personal cook? Would your _Immigration Act_ have let me? Even though I’m two generations British?” When Edge remains quiet, he grinned humourlessly. “I didn’t think so.”

And he was right. Maybe his British citizenship would’ve been enough, but Edge has seen the distrust for Southern and Eastern Europeans first-hand. They are seen as threats – competition for jobs and housing, and people fear they’ll undermine American values and cause Bolshevik revolution similar to the one in Russia during the War. Stupidity, Edge would’ve said if anyone had ever bothered to ask for his opinion. If they came to America, he can only imagine it is because they wanted to live in America, not in Russia.

After putting his cup down on the desk, Papyrus saunters over to him, smiling sweetly. “Never mind all that. You look like you want to ask something.” He holds up a vial with powder. “If you make any unnecessary noises, I _will_ shove this down your throat, and you’ll die an _incredibly_ painful death. So better not do anything stupid, alright?” Edge nods slowly. Papyrus – Nikolay – beams. “Wonderful! See how simple things are when you cooperate?”

He pulls the gag out of Edge’s mouth, and Edge coughs, opening and closing it a couple times. Oh God, his mouth feels like a desert. Concern glimmers in Nikolay’s eyes, and he takes a few steps over to the bedtable, where a water pitcher stands, together with a glass. After pouring some into the glass, he offers it to Edge. Edge eyes it suspiciously, and he rolls his eyes, taking a sip himself. “See? It’s not poisoned. Drink, friend.”

As he puts it to Edge’s mouth, Edge does as told. Both because he does not wish to make him mad and because he genuinely needs it. When it’s empty, and his throat feels less rough, he sighs in relief before looking up at Pa- Nikolay. He looks genuinely sorry for what the situation has come to. But why would he? If he didn’t mind framing Stretch, why would he be care about Edge? That’s his first question.

Nikolay shrugs. “In all honesty, I wanted Blue to be the one. His loyalty to the Gasters is _sickening_. Can’t seem to see any of their faults, even when his own brother is being abused. But since anyone who knew him would know how he poured his soul into serving them until the point that’s what his life is about, and they would’ve realized he never would have, Stretch was the second best. Doing it to Sir Razz would’ve simply been stupid: his family is incredibly powerful. At least this way, I get to Blue somehow. He adored that family nearly as much as I hate them. In all honesty, I almost feel bad for him. Almost. Plus, I haven’t missed how he speaks about my heritage. He’s just like everyone else. Up on his high horses thinking he’s _better_ than me because he’s a pure-blooded Englishman. And now his own brother is getting sentenced for the last Gaster’s murder.” He hums, the bitterness gone as fast as it came. “You get two more questions, and then I’m afraid I’ll have to get rid of you before it’s too late. I am not an unkind monster, I’d feel awful to kill you when you’re so close to solving the mystery.”

“How did you do all of this? Why wait so long?” Edge’s head spins with all the new information, but he forces himself to focus. The longer he can keep Papy- Nikolay rambling, the more time he has to get out of here. Dying is not in this week’s schedule, especially not by a cook.

The other’s smile widens. “It wasn’t hard. When your brother is a former MI6-spy, falsifying papers and learning about poisons is a child’s play. We simply made up a reasonable backstory, fixed some papers, and then I went to search employment at the Gasters. As for why so long? I’m a patient man. I very much did not wish to be _new_ as I did it – my foreign ancestry already made me suspicious enough, since everyone’s bigoted. And your _third_ question?”

His last.

There were multiple things he wants to know. Why, _exactly_ , he is doing this. How he’s managed to keep this act up for such a long time. If he hasn’t grown fond of the brothers during the time he’s worked with them, even a little? How he can do such a thing to _Stretch_ of all people. But in all honesty, there is one thing that’s more pressing to him than anything else.

Edge’s soul pounds in his chest as he stares into Nikolay’s eyes. His eyelights are soft as he meets his gaze, almost remorseful. Nonetheless, they’re determined, and Edge has no delusions about him changing his mind and letting him go. “What are you going to do with me?”

Nikolay’s smile softens. “Oh that’s easy. I’m going to give you some Cerbera odollam-seeds. The former owner of the manor had a poison greenhouse and I’ve been caring for it. I’m _very_ sorry to tell you it won’t be painless. Then, once you fall into a coma, I’ll shove you off the west wing. It’ll look like you fell.” He crouches down so he can reach into the secret compartment. Picking up a vial holding several brown seeds, he shakes it gently. “I doubt you’ll get the sort of investigation _he_ got – you’re a nobody, aren’t you? No family to speak of, no money?”

Edge remains quiet, face paling. He’s right. There’s a much too big risk that he’ll simply get written off as an accident or a suicide. Especially in these times. After the Crash, so _many_ committed suicides, and he was _born_ into a short life-expectancy group.

“Thought so.”

The house creaks around them as Nikolay steps forward. Edge feels his palms start to sweat as he leans backwards in the chair, as far away as he can. He squeezes his teeth shut as his breathing shallows. Something moves behind Nikolay, silently, slowly. A hand grips his jaw tight, starting to pry it open. Edge fights him, eyes trained at the other’s face. Nikolay’s expression is determined as he digs the tip of a phalange in between Edge’s teeth.

Edge struggles, throwing his head to the side and rocking the chair, which makes the other’s expression harden. The chair legs scrape against the floor. The finger slides in deeper, and Edge lets out a squawk as his mouth is bended open. Triumph shines in Nikolay’s eyes as he plops the cork of the vial with his thumb. It falls to the floor with a quiet thump. The seeds rustles inside the vial. A dark shape appears behind Nikolay, making his soul skip a beat as he attempts to throw away with his head again, to no avail. The cook has an iron grip on his jaw, his fingers hooked into it, keeping his mouth open.

His eyes flicker to the shape behind, widening. Apparently, Nikolay notices.

“Wha-” he says, turning to look over his shoulder. _Thuck_.

Edge gapes as his eyelights roll back in his eyes and he sinks to the floor with a groan. Behind him, holding a broomstick raised in the air, stands Blue. His face is still red from tears and his suit is crumpled, but fury is written on his face as he lowers the broomstick, glaring down at Nikolay in disgust. Edge can’t help but stare at the right-hand man in shock. Without a word, Blue drives the end of the broomstick into Nikolay’s head once more before shoving him to the side, facing Edge.

“Are you alright, sir?” he asks. Edge nods mutely. “I was looking for you. Inspector Fuente wanted to speak with you.” He picks up a handkerchief from his pocket, rubbing his red cheeks. “Let me untie you.”

“Yeah,” Edge says loftily. Holy shit. His mind spins as he tries to process the last few moments, now when the adrenaline is sinking away. “Please.”

Nimble fingers soon loosen the ropes keeping him stuck to the chair around his waist, arms, and legs. “I can’t believe-” Blue stops to stare at the body of the murderer he’s just knocked out. “Yes, he’s-” He shakes his head. “I know I said I suspected him, but I can’t _believe_ he’d frame my brother.” New tears welled up, which he was quick to wipe away with his handkerchief. He smiles wetly. “But that means my brother is innocent. I knew it. I _knew_ Stretch wasn’t a murderer.”

“So did I,” Edge murmurs, and Blue’s smile widens.

Once Edge is free, standing up and stretching his stiff limbs, they stare at the body.

“So what are we doing with him, sir?”

Edge smiles faintly. He’s shivering – almost getting murdered will do that to you. “We bring him to Inspector Fuente and get your brother back.”

Soon, he carries the unconscious Nikolay like a potato sack over his shoulder upstairs while Blue brings the evidence. The vials and the letters, and some of the ropes Edge had been tied up with. They use the others to tie up Nikolay.

Inspector Fuente and Sir Razz are standing in the main hall, conversing, as they show up. Both of them stare as Edge drops the unconscious cook on the ground.

“Here’s your murderer,” he says.

For a few beats, the room is completely silent.

“He nearly killed me too,” he adds, “but Blue knocked him out.”

Another couple seconds of silence follow. Blue holds up the poisons and hands over the letters to Inspector Fuente.

“The murder weapon, the attempted murder weapon, and his motivation.” Edge rolls his shoulders. God, Pa- Nikolay is heavy. But he is, of course, a grown man so nothing else was to be expected, really. He looks at Sir Razz. “It seems as though your husband, sir, destroyed his brother’s career within MI6 because of their Bulgarian descent. Because of racism, clear and simple.” He gives them a brief summary of the last hour.

“May I have my brother back now?” Blue demands, stepping forward and actually _glaring_ at the inspector. Sir Razz blinks in surprise. “He’s innocent. As I said.”

Inspector Fuente huffs, shock, amazement, and amusement all playing on his face as he looks between Edge and Blue. He nods. “Yes, we’ll go into Deadford and get him out of the arrest. This case took an unexpected turn.”

If he’s worried someone will say anything to the Police about him being wrong, or if he even cares, he doesn’t show it. Nonetheless, Edge puts a hand on Blue’s shoulder, receiving a questioning gaze, before he nods back. “I do believe we have solved this case,” he says.

The inspector raises an eyebrow, but nods, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards. “Yes… It seems we have.” He dips his hat to Sir Razz. “Well, sir, we better get going.”

Sir Razz nods as well before turning to his right-hand man. “Blue, you go with the inspector and get your brother. I’m sure he’ll appreciate that the most.” Blue nodded quickly. “And Detective Serif, come with me and I’ll pay you what I owe. And a bonus for almost getting murdered.”

Edge can’t help but grin. “I appreciate it, sir.”

* * *

And then he is back where it all began.

He regards his reflection in his office window before looking outside at the dark street. A beggar sits bundled up in some stairs, a wild dog wanders by. The rain is, as always, pouring down over Deadford, smattering against asphalt and windows. It’s in the middle of the day, so the occasional car comes by and some pedestrians walk by, too used to the rain to bother with trying to escape it. It’s still dark: the clouds are black as coal as they spit heaven’s fury down over the town, as lightning and thunder flashes and booms.

For the first time in his life, he’d opened a bank account. Sir Razz had paid him _seven hundred dollars_ for his services, and he’s never had that much money in his entire life. And since he does not feel safe keeping that money in his office or his shared apartment, the bank seems like the most logical choice. For once, he does not worry about ending up on the street eventually. He’s not about to buy any frivolities, though, like some others may have. In times like these, that money is best kept as backup in case he’ll lack food or be unable to pay the rent one day.

A purring comes from the side and he smiles as a white cat steps on the hand he has planted on the windowsill, demanding attention. He scratches her ear before stroking his hand down her back. Luckily, being away hadn’t destroyed his relationship with that beautiful cat on the street: in fact, once he came back, she’d been willing to move in with him. Her name is Doomfanger now. A beautiful, hairy cat with a scar running down along her right eye and torn ears that has seen better days. He loves her already.

His fingertips slide over the cold glass as he pets her, making him shiver, and she licks them, looking pleased with herself. Taking her into his arms, he walks over to the desk. Details from a new case already covers his desk: with Sir Razz’s commendations on his resumé, he suddenly turned into a highly sought for private detective. For now, he does not need to worry about money at all, for the first time in his life.

It feels good.

It knocks on the door, thrice, and he raises an eyebrow as he opens his arms so Doomfanger will jump. She lands on the floor with a quiet thump, staring at him in offence. The corner of his mouth tugs upwards. Apparently he isn’t allowed to put her down already. She lounges in the back of the room as he steps over to the door. Who would visit him at this time of day, in this weather?

The door creaks as he opens it, and a dark shape is revealed in the dark hallway. Once his eyes get used to the dim light, he hums in surprise. Dressed in a huge coat with its collar pulled up halfway over his face, stands Stretch. Edge steps to the side, gesturing for him to come in, and he does, waterdrops sliding off his coat and down on the floorboards.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you?” Stretch asks, folding down his collar to reveal his face. His teeth chatters, and his smile is nervous.

Edge shakes his head, smiling. “Not at all. I am very sorry I didn’t say goodbye, but I was worried about overstaying my welcome.” He gestures toward the coat-hanger before stepping back a few steps so he can pull out a bottle whisky from his desk drawer. Alcohol may be illegal but literally who the fuck cares? He places two glasses on the table. “Whisky? You look cold.”

“Thank you,” he says as he pulls of his coat, hanging it up next to Edge’s. Doomfanger stares at him from behind the desk, distrustful.

Once Edge has poured up two glasses with honey-brown liquid, he hands one of the glasses to Stretch before sitting down in one of the two old leather armchairs by the wall, gesturing for the other to do the same, which he does. The armchair squeaks and sways as Stretch sits down, and for a moment worry flashes over his face, as though he’s wondering if the armchair is going to break beneath him.

“And I understand.” Stretch smuts at his whisky, sighing in relief as he drinks. “Sir Razz can be intimidating. I came to say thank you. You know. For not stopping investigating.”

Taking a gulp of his own whisky, feeling it burn pleasantly in his throat, Edge shakes his head. “Of course. I- There was something about it that didn’t feel right. I didn’t think you were capable of doing such a thing… And you weren’t.”

“No.” He stares into his glass as he swirls the liquid around it. “I hated Dr Gaster. Hated him, with all my soul. I would’ve resigned the day I turned eighteen and taken employment in the factories, if Blue hadn’t- Yeah. I couldn’t leave my brother. He would’ve been heartbroken, and mother and father would’ve broken all contact with me, and made him do so too, just like they later did with Clara – our older sister-”

Edge nods. The sister who ran away to run a Scottish tavern in Minnesota with her _partner_. He can only assume that meant she isn’t married. In all honesty, he can’t help but admire her guts.

“-but no, I couldn’t hurt the doctor. Not that I didn’t occasionally want to throw wine in his face, damn the consequences, but no. Never.”

“You’re a better person than me,” Edge murmurs. “If my foreman is still alive, and I met him, he’d be lucky if I only punched him.”

Flashing him a quick smile, Stretch downs the rest of his whisky. “Well. You’d be justified. At least I was never physically hurt.” He sighs. “But now when I know how disgustingly he acted during the War – I didn’t even know he _was_ in the War, we all got to hear he spent a year at Université Paris-Sorbonne – I feel even more that he truly did deserve what he got.”

“He did.”

Even if what Nikolay did was truly abhorrent as well. But the trial was coming up, and with the evidence against him, Edge didn’t doubt he’d spend a lot of time paying for his crimes.

By now, also Stretch has finished his whisky. He glances at the clock, and then at Edge. There’s something wishful on his face as he moves to stand. “Maybe I should go back before it gets too late. I just wanted to thank you.”

“You can-” Edge says before he can stop himself before cutting himself off. Stretch’s eyes flicker to him, something almost hopeful shining in there, and Edge relaxes. “One of my roommates is out of town. If you’d like, you can borrow his bed. It’s not as fancy as a manor, but it’s warm and dry. That was you don’t have to travel back in this weather.”

The smile that lits up Stretch’s face makes it impossible for him not to return it, smiling just as warmly.

“I’d like that, thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!
> 
> Wow, now that's over. Amazing. I've now written a detective story just because I was complaining about not having any ideas to Kyuko and she said something along the lines of "Write a detective story" despite me not even being a particularly engaged reader of mysteries. Brilliant!
> 
> If you've enjoyed this story, _please_ leave a comment! It really helps keeping me encouraged to write more, and it's really discouraging when something I've poured my soul into does not get any attention. Thank you!! I'm so happy you were here to read and share this story with me!

**Author's Note:**

> So. This is pretty hard to write, because I don't read a lot of detective stories (I've read a bit of Sherlock Holmes, and watched Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, and that's basically it), so I'm not certain how much this will be updated. We'll see! 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed, it's what keeps me going! Validate me and my story! (Kidding, but I would really appreciate it!)
> 
> And tell me your theories!!!  
>  
> 
> __  
> [Come and see me on Tumblr!](https://odderancyart.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
